


Sherlock oneword prompts

by Neubauje



Category: A Cure for Boredom, American Gods, Chameleon, Doctor Who, Fallen - Fandom, Kidlock - Fandom, Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes - fandom, The Finder, The Sentinel, Winglock - Fandom, wholock - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Bees & Beekeeping, Crossover, Drabbles, Entomology, F/M, Kidlock, M/M, Other, Poetry, Puppy Play, Wholock, Winglock, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:51:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 183
Words: 53,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neubauje/pseuds/Neubauje
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's a collection of non-chronological prompts, written a day at a time. While most will take place during the same timeline, others may include crossovers or alternate possibilities. Have fun exploring the world of Sherlock with me!</p><p>I will take peer-prompts, so feel free to send some my way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Compassion- johnlock

Sherlock had never really seen the point of "compassion." It just seemed like another one of those useless emotions that only got in the way of seeing the truth. But when he found himself staring down John's neck and wishing he could trail his fingers down the veteran's back, he caught a glimmer of understanding.


	2. Trunk- Adlock

John was rather frustrated with Sherlock's uninterested request for help. How had he gotten himself wrangled into unpacking his flatmate's trunk? He hadn't had any of the fun on the trip to... wherever it was Sherlock had gone. John's musings on a revolt against the lazy man-child detective were cut short when his hand withdrew a black, lacy piece of lingerie.


	3. Thorns- johnlock

John shook his head at the state of Sherlock's trench coat. It had several rips in it, the hem was soaking wet, and there were burrs and thorns stuck in all along the sleeves. "It'll take a tailor more talented than me to fix this, Sherlock," John sighed, placing the near-ruined coat on the couch next to him. "The next time you think it's absolutely necessary to go running through briars, remember that I'm only experienced in sewing sutures."


	4. Apron- foodlock

John slowly wandered downstairs at the smell of something burnt wafting around 221B. Peeking his head around the corner into the kitchen, he was amused to find Sherlock, dressed in Mrs. Hudson's apron (probably stolen), meticulously inspecting a pan of what would seem to be the scalded remains of eggs. The furrowed brow on the detective's face made John chuckle, as Sherlock inspected the eggs as though trying to find a cause of death.


	5. Dozen- foodlock

John scowled at the empty bag in the cupboard. His stomach growled softly, almost as though in conjecture with his mood. He knew that this bag had previously contained the dozen snickerdoodle cookies he'd brought home from his favorite new bakery.  
It was no great mystery what had happened to them, as Sherlock had recently solved his latest case and had suddenly started eating again. John sighed and resigned himself to a bagel as a writing-mate as he composed the blog summary of the latest ordeal.


	6. Oil- Johnlock

John nearly wretched at the smell as Sherlock came upstairs, his trench coat drenched in motor oil and mud. He rushed to open a window, coughing into a sleeve as Sherlock stood dripping in the doorway, nearly oblivious to John's discomfort. After letting the room air out a bit, John took Sherlock's coat and tossed it into the bathtub with soap and hot water. "What in god's name were you thinking?" He nearly shrieked at Sherlock, who had settled himself into an armchair with his violin and two nicotine patches, "Those fumes can be deadly if inhaled in great quantities!"  
Sherlock only shrugged into his violin, as though pointing out he weren't dead. It couldn't be helped, not when Moriarty's henchmen insisted on dragging him into a refinery.


	7. Savage- Johnlock

John glanced up from his blog and was startled to see the savage expression with which Sherlock was staring at him. "Sherlock?" he called across the coffee table gently, bringing the detective out of his focused trance, "Was something wrong?"  
Sherlock quirked a brow, debating how honest to be with John. "Oh, I was just wondering how hard I could bite your neck before you cried out."  
The doctor sat for a second, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly as his cheeks slowly flushed a bit brighter.  
"Problem?"


	8. Sparkling- drunklock

"And really, you know, it wasssn't even a GOOD case affter awl," Sherlock slurred, leaning heavily across the freshly-cleared kitchen table. "Jusht because we got paid alott, doesn't mean I'm not BOREDDD." He gestured with his glass, spilling the sparkling champagne onto the doily Mrs. Hudson had put on the table with the morning's tea tray.  
John patted Sherlock's shoulder bemusedly, gently pushing him back upright into his chair. "Come on, Sherlock, looks like it's time for you to go be bored in bed. The other bottle can wait until you've finished a case YOU like."


	9. Conceal

John slumped onto his bed with a tired sigh, almost wishing he had his limp to blame on the day's exhaustion. Instead he kneaded gingerly at his shoulder, which was indeed starting to swell up from the three surgeries he'd performed today. A light snigger sounded from nowhere as John undressed from his work uniform, completely oblivious to the fact that Sherlock had perfectly concealed himself in John's closet without even shutting the door.


	10. Below- Johnlock

It wasn't that Sherlock thought it below himself to do such mundane things as buying milk or cleaning the bathroom, (though John wouldn't be surprised to learn that to be the case) it was just another one of those things he chose not to save into his mental hard drive. Manners and excessive hygiene and taking turns, why give up the phone numbers of all his previous clients for the past ten years in exchange for something so menial?  
John couldn't say he liked Sherlock's choice of knowledge, but it was something he understood. So when he had to remember every time to stock the fridge full of something other than body parts, he only sighed and hoped it was worth it.


	11. Placebo- Johnlock

Sherlock appreciated the effort that John had put into this. Really, he did. For a mind of one of the ordinary population, this was incredible work. Sherlock was sure that John thought he had missed no detail, thought of every possibility. But creating a mystery for Sherlock to solve during their dry spell, as carefully crafted as it may have been, simply didn't produce the same effect upon solving when Sherlock could TELL by the little traces left behind by his best friend that it was only a placebo.

The one person Sherlock knew best in the world, did he really think he wouldn't notice?

Even still, Sherlock would have to think of some way to thank John for his effort.


	12. Jacket- Johnlock

John rose from his crouching position at the edge of the rooftop, his leg starting to ache a bit from the cold and his general sense of unease. Exhaling a thick fog into the frigid autumn air, he turned again to Sherlock with a sigh.

"Remind me again what we're doing up here?" His body let out a little shiver as the chill seeped into him. They'd already been up there for ten minutes, staring at the intersection below.

Sherlock adjusted his coat as it blew in the tailwind. "We're keeping watch for the murderer. He'll strike next at that inn across the street."

John stifled his protests about how they could have done this just as easily from the warm cafe below them, and instead shoved his hands into the pockets of his meager jacket. He wished he'd had a chance to check the weather report before they'd left, as the temperature seemed to be steadily dropping into the 10s. A sidelong glance at Sherlock, warm in his scarf and Belstaff beauty, (like all things) did not go unnoticed.

"If you're going to complain about being out in the cold," Sherlock muttered (even though John had voiced no such complaints), "You might as well come here." He reached out and tugged firmly on John's sleeve, who stiffly and reluctantly took a few steps to close the distance between them. Sherlock pulled him in close and wrapped the front of his coat around John, shielding him from the winds and sharing his body heat with the soldier to keep his shoulder wound from getting too stiff.

After a minute or two, John leaned in gently against Sherlock to rest his tired head on the insomniac's shoulder. He had no idea how long it was before Sherlock gently and silently shook him awake, pointing across the street at a burly figure entering the inn.


	13. Runaway- Post Reichenbach

John shuffled home from a long, menial day at work. He drudged up the stairs and stood in the door frame of 221B. Everything was exactly how he had left it. No thumbs in the fridge, no chemicals burning away on the kitchen table, no violin wavering through the air and no gangly detective sitting in the leather armchair. John glanced at his own chair, despairing the thought of another day sitting in it with nobody across from him.

Instead of taking his jacket off and settling in, he turned back around and hurried down the steps. He had barely remembered to lock the door behind himself before sprinting away down Baker street, trying to escape everything that reminded him of Sherlock.


	14. Beehive

John longed to scratch his side. He squirmed uncomfortably as the itch nagged at him, almost as though it knew he couldn't get to it through the thick-hided beekeeping suit. "Aren't you almost done, Sherlock? I can't believe you're doing this."

Sherlock withdrew his head from the giant beehive, the last in a line of five. "Yes, that should do it. Now I just need to run these samples against the one found on the victim. Let's go." Sherlock immediately started making towards the rental car, leaving John struggling with his suit and trying to apologize to the beekeeper.

"Hold up," he called to the impatient detective, "Some people actually use the equipment designed for this job. We're not all miraculous bee-whisperers, you know!"

Sherlock only laughed as he leaned against the car, suckling the raw honey from his fingers.


	15. Liberty- Mystrade

John laid his head in his palm with a sigh. "So run this by me one more time. We have to break into the Yard WHY? I mean, aren't they under your jurisdiction?"  
Mycroft crossed his legs and leaned back with a stern look at John. "You know I'm not at liberty to say. Just see to it that Sherlock doesn't go overboard and get himself into trouble, would you? Your deadline is 3am tomorrow." John was starting to see why Sherlock hated dealing with his brother so much.


	16. Collar- Johnlock

Sherlock glanced out of the corner of his eye to ensure John was following along, paying attention. "With your cheekbones and your collar," he'd ranted. With the most imperceptible of smirks, Sherlock forged ahead into the mist and popped his collar with a flourish. Surely enough, John rolled his eyes, but by now he had to realize that it really was all a show just for him. Sherlock silently vowed to find more things that John paid attention to.


	17. Hoop- Johnlock

John bent with his hands on his knees, puffing out cold air as he caught his breath. "I'm getting old," he panted, the forgotten ball rolling away across the abandoned court. He glared up at the rusted old hoop with a wince at a sharp pain in his leg. "I used to be able to dunk back in secondary school."

Sherlock only tugged at John s sleeve, impatiently dragging him away from the scene of his failure. He wondered if John needed to be told that sporting ability didn't matter to him.


	18. Odds

Sherlock watched in shocked bemusement as John rounded on Anderson, his fist connecting squarely on the idiot's jaw. The two had been at odds ever since Anderson had adopted Donovan's nickname for Sherlock ("freak"). The most recent usage after Sherlock's delighted grin of non-boredom at the triple homicide had been enough to send an already-stressed Watson over the edge.

Sherlock sidled up to him next to one of the bodies after the bout had subsided. "So how was it?"

"What, clocking Anderson?" The good doctor grinned, "Better than you can imagine."


	19. Function

Sherlock tried to tell John that it seemed his right arm had ceased its function, but all that came out was a strained moan of pain.

"Hold still," John commanded the stubborn detective, "I think your arm is broken. I'm going to try splinting it until the ambulance gets here."

Sherlock was reminded how lucky he was to have a doctor as a best friend. The last thing he observed before blacking out from pain was John ripping his t-shirt into strips to wrap around Sherlock's occupational injury.


	20. Festival- Johnlock

Sherlock was nearly satisfied with the day's work. He knew that the group of vendors working the festival were involved in a criminal smuggling organization, and had spent the whole day observing them and their covert activities. John had come along for the novelty of the festival, not having been to one for twenty years or so. He had been frustrated to find, however, that Sherlock was insistent on sneaking around behind the booths rather than enjoying what they had to offer.

By the time the two ended up on the Ferris wheel, Sherlock peering down to gather the general traffic pattern of the incoming trucks, John had very well reached the end of his energy reserve. As they reached the bottom again, Sherlock was reluctant to wake the sleeping doctor from his shoulder. He sighed and resigned himself to going around a few more times as the sun began to set and the stars peeped out over the tents.


	21. Wagon

John glanced curiously at the old wooden wagon sitting by the entrance to 221 as he made his way in after work. He could just barely make out a skull and crossbones in faded, hand-painted black, a raggedy black flag tied around the handle. "Sherlock," he asked when he got upstairs to find the detective seething over a manilla envelope, "What was that old wagon doing outside?"

"You've just missed Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, waving the envelope as though that were proof enough. "He always seems to be able to dredge up a piece of my childhood when he really needs to twist my arm."


	22. Epic- Johnlock

Sherlock smiled a bit as he watched John's face. The doctor had been making his way through the Oddessy for the first time, and it was most amusing to watch his expressions as he came to each juicy, raunchy escapade of the classic epic.

A wrinkle of the nose at the cannibalistic cyclops. A lift of the eyebrows at the seductive sea witch. A furrowed forehead at the god of the sea, taunting the little mortal man. Sherlock could watch John's face all day. What a relief it must be to be so easily entertained by the debauchery of the ancient tale.

Sherlock curled his knees up to his chin, rocking back in his armchair to watch John, nearly able to put his mind to rest for the moment.


	23. Chief- Mystrade

Mycroft glowered at the front page of the morning's paper, his brother glowering back at him from under that ridiculous deerstalker. The focus of the older Holmes attention, however, was the pepper-haired Detective Inspector, with the Chief of Police hovering over him, wearing an expression not unlike Mycroft's.

The tired old government official was reminded once again of his suspicions of corruption in the higher ranks of the police. Perhaps Greg would be able to provide some insight. Mycroft looked forward to the meeting.


	24. Sacred

Though he had no idea what might be happening, or what to do about the dead end they'd just run into, John knew better than to ask Sherlock for clarification. The moody detective had retreated to his mind palace, eyes closed in intense focus. John supposed that if he were constantly irritated by the world around him, as Sherlock was, it would not bode well for any soul who dared disturb his sacred solace.

John only hoped the mental escape would not take too much longer; he missed being let in on his friend's amazing thought process.


	25. Camera- Johnlock

John had found the large camera in the stairwell, left forgotten in all the excitement over Moriarty's great hostage puzzle. He'd brought it up into his room after the whole affair had calmed down, always sure that such a nice camera must be good for something other than a disguise... Sherlock didn't really need it, of course, given his memory. John pondered the prospect of amateur photography over his morning tea.

Sherlock was still down in his bedroom, likely sleeping off the exhaustion accumulated over the past week. An idea brewing, John grinned and snuck down with the camera to stand in Sherlock's doorway. The taller man was completely sprawled out across the whole bed, the lone, crumpled white sheet just barely keeping him decent. John zoomed the focus in on Sherlock's sleeping face, calmer than it would ever appear while awake, and clicked the shutter.


	26. Orbit- Johnlock

John had been genuinely surprised to learn of Sherlock's ignorance of the Earth's orbit. To be fair, the knowledge would rarely factor in to most human motives. It was just... John wondered what else Sherlock was ignorant about. Would he know what chemicals had flammable properties? Which bones would need immediate treatment when broken? How to start a fire when stranded in the woods?  
John tried to stop worrying, assuring himself that whenever another one of Sherlock's gaps in knowledge surfaced, he would be there to fill it in.


	27. Walls- Post Reichenbach

The walls of 221B Baker street could tell stories, even to those not as gifted at reading details as its world-renowned resident. The bullet-hole-riddled yellow spray paint smiley face was, of course, the most distinguishing feature, a playful reminder of a successful case and the ensuing boredom. Alongside the remaining ash from the explosion next door, and the few scattered drops of blood flung about from a harpoon, the smiley face almost seemed to be hiding the secrets of its owner.

John Watson sighed as he ran a hand over this scar in the floral-printed paper. When he'd first moved in, there had been plenty of walls between him and his flatmate. And to be sure, there were still a few remaining. Sherlock did not easily volunteer information about himself, only others. But as the two grew closer, John could begin to see the walls coming down, one by one. Sherlock's giddy laugh of excitement, his smile at a compliment, or his concern for John and Mrs. Hudson when they were placed in danger, each one felt like a secret view into the humanity of this man who tried so hard to be something else.

This was why it had hurt so much, when in those fleeting last moments, Sherlock had tried putting all those walls up again. John guessed it was supposed to be a barrier from the pain that would come from losing a best friend and an amazing genius... But it was too late. John had already seen behind those protective walls, and knew better than to believe that anything else but the man he'd gotten to know lay behind them, bleeding onto the pavement.


	28. Butterfly

Sherlock peered into his microscope, careful not to breathe too forcefully and blow away the delicate wing-scales. This was his last lead on the entomologist, the honey samples had turned up nothing of interest. If he could just glean a few particulates off of these butterfly scales, he might be able to tell where the body had come from, or what had been in contact with it.

It only occurred to Sherlock halfway in that he might look at the scales themselves; Butterflies tended to be very regional, if he could identify the species and even sub-species, he might be able to track it to its natural area. It was a long shot, but without further evidence, it was the best he had. He wondered how John would feel about a trip to a butterfly mating ground, wherever that might turn out to be.


	29. Adopt- Johnlock

It always amazed John when a situation arose which called for Sherlock to adopt an alternate persona... The change in his behaviour from cold, calculating sociopath to scared pedestrian, or sympathetic friend, or playful tourist could almost be considered a disguise, though his appearance hardly changed. John knew he shouldn't be surprised that such a brilliant mind would be able to pick up these social facades... But after having become accustomed to Sherlock's usual, uncaring persona, it was still a shock to his system every time.

"You're staring," Sherlock murmured from behind his textbook. "You only do that when you're making an attempt to think."

"Yeah," John sighed a bit. "Just considering myself lucky that you've adopted me as your audience."


	30. Festival 2- Johnlock

Sherlock sighed as the festival started to dwindle down, the attractions slowly shutting down one by one as the night grew later and later. Finally, the ferris wheel came to a slow halt with the last two attendees at the bottom. The operator of the ride had been kind enough to let Sherlock remain on the ride, since it was not one of the ones in high demand, and his companion clearly needed the rest.

It had been a pleasant enough pause in his busy schedule, left to his own mental devices (the smuggling operation behind the scenes long since worked out, to be proved later) as John kept warm against his side, head draped over his shoulder with the softest of snores. Eventually as the temperature had dropped, Sherlock had carefully and protectively wrapped an arm around the doctor to pull him closer, centralizing their weight to keep the little car from rocking in the accelerating night wind.

With the gentlest of nudges, Sherlock had awoken John at the festival worker's request to leave at closing time. Despite all efforts, the veteran had still awoken with a start, glancing quickly around them as he regained his surroundings.

"It's dark?" He frowned, gathering that there seemed to be nobody left wandering behind the closed-up booths, "How long was I out?"

"A while," Sherlock smiled, stepping out of the car and tugging on John's arm to help him out, "And now it's time we went back home."


	31. Maze

Sherlock paused for a split second to reference his mental map outlining their route through the maze of London's back alleys and rooftops. It only took a moment to reference the landmarks surrounding them and make a quick and decisive turn down the dark alley next to the Italian restaurant. John trailed behind him, just barely keeping pace with Sherlock's wildly-flailing coattails as he tried to keep track of all the twists and turns and secret shortcuts they'd already taken that night, in hot pursuit of the sniper responsible for their client's recent widowing. Sherlock was certain he knew their quarry's eventual destination, as certainly as he knew every possible way to reach it faster.

John gave up on learning Sherlock's map, and simply focused on keeping up without a fatal misstep.


	32. Carnival

Lestrade sighed and let his head sink into his hands. "First you finger the fall festival out by the forest, (Sherlock smirked at the unintentional alliteration) and now you're accusing the carnival in Surrey of being some kind of cover for a giant heroin operation? Jesus, Sherlock, not every entertainment organization has ulterior motives, just because you had one bit of trouble with that Chinese circus."

Sherlock leaned in closer, hands in his pockets. "Detective, I am positive that these two groups are part of the same network, which has been smuggling heroin, meth, and other drugs from a lab of enormous proportions in Bangkok to Britain and France." He withdrew his hand from his pocket, placing a small baggie of white powder onto Lestrade's desk.

"Please tell me that's not what I think it is," Greg deadpanned, nearly able to feel a few more of his hairs turning grey.


	33. Clue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because "cluedo" is "clue" in America

John couldn't help chuckling at the idea. The world's only consulting detective, stumped and frustrated by a simple game of Cluedo! He had treated the game like a real-life murder scene, insisting that the characters must have motives, and that the murderer must have left behind evidence. "There must be some way to investigate the crime scene," he had insisted, "Aren't there signs of empirical evidence on this board?"

Finally, as the night grew long and Sherlock's patience had worn thin, the inadequate playing board had found itself pinned to the mantle with a dull knife, its entertainment value thoroughly exhausted.

And for his insolence, John had found himself pinned beneath the self-proclaimed victor.


	34. Flirt- Johnlock

John had to wonder sometimes if Sherlock even realized what he was doing. When he had insisted that John's date with Sarah was the same as what he had suggested, had he intended that as a flirt? When he grabbed at John's temples, or stood too close in his personal space, was it due to a sense of comfort, or a desire for something more?

Not wanting to push either way, John decided to leave the flirtatious behavior unmentioned. He didn't mind that much, after all.


	35. Ants- Johnlock

Sherlock stood for a moment at the edge, swaying slightly as he peered down at the busy roads, more than three stories below the front of his shoes. Moriarty's body lay crumpled and empty behind him, but the genius criminal's master plan was still in motion. As much as Sherlock hated to cave in to the lies, he nearly stepped away from the edge to flee down the staircase.

The crowds below him continued about their busy day, oblivious to the turmoil in the darkly-clad man atop the roof of the hospital around which they all made their way. From so high up, Sherlock mused, they hardly looked like more than so many ants, crawling from food to queen and country. These were the people whose opinion he was so concerned with?

From the swarm emerged another little ant, paused in the middle of the well-defined pathways. The fair color of his hair, his shorter stature, the shape of his jacket, Sherlock could immediately identify the little insect as the only person in the world who really mattered to him. He reached for his phone.


	36. Track- Johnlock

Sherlock gripped his knees tightly as his body spasmed a little, curling even tighter into himself. "John, PLEASE," he begged, "Just one. Just one, just today. No more tomorrow."

John crossed his arms, the patches clutched tightly in his left fist. "No, Sherlock, you promised. Cold turkey." He frowned at the miserable expression on the frazzled addict's face. "How will you know that you really need them if you don't try without? Now come out of that chair, you'll cramp up if you curl any tighter." John stuffed the patches into his desk and came closer to tug on Sherlock's arm, coaxing him out of the chair and into a standing position. "Let's go get some air," he cooed, pulling Sherlock towards the door.

Sherlock reluctantly complied, eventually muttering "Thank you" as they made it outside.

"Hrm?" John looked up, "What for?"

Sherlock wearily smiled down at him as the wind dried the sweat from his forehead. "For keeping me on track."


	37. Shelter

Sherlock snuck into the shelter, bundled up in a borrowed jacket as he infiltrated the homeless crowd, searching for a new recruit. In rushed whispers and passed notes (monetary and otherwise), he silently and secretly combed the room of dirty veterans and women down on their luck. His target was near, he was sure of it. His network had informed him of the newcomer, just in from out of town. Sherlock was eager to see if he could get any information on the carnival in Surrey from someone who would be more able to view it from an insider's view.

Finally, Sherlock came upon the dirty young carnie, and after a few moments of interrogation and bribery, was rewarded with a confirmation of his suspicions. He wormed his way back out of the crowd and covertly tugged John out of the soup line, where he had been patiently waiting with a hidden smile of amusement. It really was genius, he knew, making use of this cheap source of information. He followed along behind Sherlock and shed his smelly coat outside the door, eager to be back in their safe apartment.


	38. Balloon

Sherlock paused to let John catch his breath, the early morning mist dissipating as the two hiked through the forest, boots crunching on the dead leaves and pine needles. They were nearly at their destination, a clearing in the forest filled with a particular flower which made the location famous for its power to attract the rare butterfly; the selfsame one whose scales found on the dead Entomologist had pointed them here.

"Oh Sherlock," John gasped as the stepped into the clearing and found themselves surrounded by colors and the silent fluttering of wings, "It's beautiful! Brilliant!"

Sherlock smiled absentmindedly at John's delight, his attention focused elsewhere. A dull blue scrap of canvas hanging from a branch twenty feet outside the clearing. "Looks like our victim was here after all," Sherlock murmured, "He must have crash-landed his survey balloon."


	39. Curse- Post Reichenbach

John hobbled into the sitting room, cursing loudly as he faltered and spilled his hot tea all over his fingers. It had been five months, and he had given up hope that Sherlock's stunt had all been an elaborate hoax. He still knew, of course, that it had been his friend's final words (and not his whole profession) which had been a lie. However, his heart no longer knew that Sherlock was still alive out there somewhere, and as the dangerous lifestyle slowly faded from John's daily routine, so had his limp slowly faded back into existence. John only wished he could carry on the detective's work, or do something to clear his name, but those days were over, and his body seemed to have accepted that fact.


	40. Shock- Post Reichenbach

John was down in the emergency room to consult another doctor. He didn't usually spend time away from the clinic, but it was an interesting change of pace for once. He needed all the excitement he could get these days. Perhaps a transfer was in order? John briefly inspected the ER patients; one had a severe leg wound, another was unconscious and pale, a third was beginning to hyperventilate as his wife was wheeled in after him, her fingers crushed in a twisted piece of metal. In the corner, a young girl lay on the hospital bed, her mother on a chair beside her. The girl's shoulders were still wrapped in the orange shock blanket from the EMTs, she was low priority when compared to others in the ER and hadn't been attended to yet.

It had been a year, and things which reminded John of Sherlock no longer sent him into fits of depression. Instead, he glanced once more at the girl's shock blanket from afar, a small wistful smile on his lips as he remembered that first night out on the streets of London.

His business concluded in the ER, John limped his way back up into his office to take his next patient.


	41. Asparagus- Johnlock

Sherlock wandered out of his bedroom as the sun sank over the tops of buildings, sending a fierce orange line of light into their sitting room. John had been clattering about in the kitchen for some time, having been building up tonight's special dinner for the past week as he made preparations and gathered ingredients. An initial sniff at the resulting aromas alerted Sherlock to an oily fish, salmon or perhaps tuna steaks. Tinged with an herb… a second sniff confirmed dill. The tuna, then. Sherlock paced slowly into the kitchen and snuck up behind the little chef to peer over his shoulder. "Remarkable," he grinned near John's ear, "how much effort you'll put into a special occasion."

John only smiled, no longer spooked by the sudden appearances behind him Sherlock so enjoyed making. "Yeah, well, maybe if you take me to such gorgeous locations with every case, you'll find yourself rewarded with this kind of dinner more often. Watch out," he warned, backing up a few inches to open the oven and extract the jilled potatoes. Setting them down to rest on the stove, he traded one potholder for a pair of tongs. "Almost done, now, just have to finish steaming-"

John had lifted the lid of the steamer, which had released a hot cloud of vapor into the kitchen, sending Sherlock reeling at the scent. "Augh, John, how could you!" The taller man was huddled on his armchair by this point, nose and mouth firmly burrowed in the protective crook of his elbow. "Asparagus? Really? How can you even consider consuming something which is shaped like a-"

John turned curiously towards the sitting room, a bunch of not-quite-limp asparagus clutched in his tongs. "Don't you DARE ruin this for me," he pointed at Sherlock through his oven mitt, "I happen to quite like it, and I think it's about time you got some proper vegetables into your diet." John was always astounded whenever he stopped to think about the percentage of Sherlock's diet which was pure sugar, and he hoped to be able to introduce some healthier habits in the near future.


	42. Sonata- Johnlock

John had finally settled in with his laptop and a fresh mug of tea, ready to relax for the rest of the night and update his blog. A fresh coat of snow was slowly making its way down through the black sky, a soft fog creeping in at the sides of the window which Sherlock stood at, an equally calm expression on his face as his bow sang through the piece he'd been remembering for the past five minutes or so. Tartini's violin sonata in G minor had been his pick of the night, a somber but soothing piece famous for its trills. Sherlock lost himself in thought and the music, the two combining into one as his reflections on the freshly-solved case fell into a shape resembling how the sonata appeared to him in his head. Another short trill here, that had been the burrs he'd spied on the hem of the murderer's trousers. A descending arpeggio there, that was the hill on which they had found the original scene of the murder. Sherlock slowly dawdled his way to the end of the piece, mentally wrapping up the case for filing; a parallel to what John did simultaneously (and publicly) on his blog.

Sherlock found that the end of the piece had passed him by, and he'd been staring out the window in silence, his chin simply holding the small instrument against him while he caught up with the world. "That was lovely," John smiled up at him from his plush armchair, "What was it?"

"The Devil's Trill sonata," Sherlock turned to face him, a smile creeping its way into the corners of his eyes as he came upon John, all cuddled up and cozy in one of the most obscenely horrendous jumpers he'd ever seen him wear.


	43. Gallery- Johnlock

Sherlock stood in front of the display case, peering in at the ancient hominid skulls. There, below them, were the old teapots, their clay starting to crack after a few years of misuse. John came away from where he'd been peering a wall of the gallery, and came close to Sherlock, sharing in his view of the human remains.  
"Just as dead as when we first saw them," John smiled, weaving his hand in with Sherlock's gloved one, where it was met with a gentle squeeze. "Though they've since patched up the bullet holes in the walls. Must have cost them a fortune to replace the granite."  
"They didn't," Sherlock answered as he led John away by the hand, already bored with the skulls, "It's just a wax fill-in."


	44. Medical

The two Londoners had unknowingly pinned a Gallifreyan against a brick wall in a dark alley. Having caught him suspiciously breaking into a high-tech facility, Sherlock feared that the tall, gangly man in the tweed jacket had been another member of Moriarty's web. John, not familiar with the technology contained in the stranger's little green-bulbed instrument with extendable claws, had pointed his gun at him for a sense of safety.  
"Whatever went wrong," pleaded the man, both hands in the air against the wall, "I can assure you with... um.. about eighty six percent certainty that it wasn't me. Probably."  
John wrinkled his nose at Sherlock in confusion. "Who are you?" he demanded of the stranger, lowering his gun by a couple inches.  
"I'm the Doctor," he claimed, eyes darting back and forth between the darkly-clad man whose cheekbones he could sympathize with, to a shorter blond man who would almost remind him of the Master's last form if not for his kind, tired eyes.  
"Yeah right," snorted John, almost surprised Sherlock had not yet spoken up, he seemed to be further inspecting their captive... "You're hardly old enough to have graduated University, never mind medical school."  
John was surprised, then, to see the stranger in his bow-tie, who couldn't have been more than 30, smile with eyes which were older than any he'd ever seen. "You must be an actual doctor, then," guessed this fantastical being, reaching out a friendly hand. "A doctor with a gun and a brooding friend like this? I'll bet you've got a great story to tell. Love a good story."


	45. Addiction

Sherlock bent over the lab set of his most recent addiction, the tobacco ash having been exhausted in every last type and possibility. The latest case they had just solved had left Sherlock with a lingering interest in Entomology; it had been a thrill to be able to trace a location by the species of butterfly, or the contents of honey, and Sherlock could see the practicality of using insect behavioural patterns as important markers. They would be a useful resource in future cases, should any particulates of that sort be found again.

The obsessive detective, in his spare time between cases, had already worked his way through cataloging the more-than-thousand species of Lepidoptera; he had sorted them by ease of identification and proximity to London. Now he had started on the honey, testing countless samples for their chemical makeups and other marking factors. John didn't mind this one so much, it was less delicate and left the flat smelling of warm honey every time Sherlock booted up the burners. He almost wondered if he was starting to become addicted to the leftover samples, which Sherlock had allowed him to add to his tea.


	46. Disseminate

In the weeks that had followed the dismissive (and false) news reports, John had dealt with his pain in a method which was both private and public at the same time. Taking up a disguise, a respirator, and a can of yellow paint, he had done his best to disseminate the #believeinsherlock propaganda throughout the entire city, covering the skate parks and abandoned power plants, and as he grew bolder and angrier, the tube stops and the sides of buildings, until finally he found himself running away from a fresh stencil on the side of Kitty Riley's corporate office building.

The most astonishing thing John had found, apart from the level of sheer exhilaration the tagging brought to him, had been when his yellow paint had been joined by the signatures and slogans of others. His #believeinsherlock now went hand in hand with a red #moriartywasreal, and eventually, a green #trustyourinstincts. (John had had to look that one up, to make sure it was part of his war) (Was it a war?) The campaign was slowly growing to an infectious scale, and John could relish the looks he caught from passersby as he saw them tilt their heads in puzzlement at the odd graffiti, or nod slightly in agreement as they passed by. Nobody seemed to react in a disagreeable way, and it made John's heart soar that Moriarty's final plan had not been entirely successful.


	47. Ikea

John was at work when he overheard excited mumblings about a new store opening nearby. "Ikea," they'd called it, and the name meant nothing to the doctor who had been overseas and concerned with other things for so long. Upon further inquiry he had been told that it was a Swedish furniture store, specializing in self-assembled furniture and other cheap housewares. John spent the rest of the day picturing his and Sherlock's flat, wondering whether they needed anything badly enough to warrant a trip out to the suburbs where the store had been erected.

"Sherlock," he had called upon arriving home, (the man was fussing over his honey samples in the kitchen again) "I think we need a couch. It won't always do to have just the two chairs in the sitting room, don't you think? For company?"

"We don't have company," Sherlock replied, without extracting himself from the microscope, "We have clients. They can continue to use the kitchen chairs."

"And what about your brother, eh?" John stood over Sherlock's shoulder for a bit before turning to put the kettle on the stove. "Surely you wouldn't want to force him onto a kitchen chair?" Sherlock's grin behind the microscope informed John that yes, if Mycroft insisted on visiting, he would be getting the least comfortable accommodations available. With a sigh, John resigned back to his armchair.

It was a surprise, then, when John returned home the next day to find that a sturdy blue-upholstered couch had been settled between the two armchairs to face the telly; and that Sherlock had nestled himself into the center of it with a sheet, a blanket, and a bowl of ice cream. John chuckled to himself and settled in next to his secretly-considerate friend on the new couch, finding it quite comfortable.


	48. Crayons

Sherlock had been holed up in the Barts lab for almost half the night, going from equipment to body to writing boards and back. Any normal person would have been exhausted by now, but Sherlock was absorbed in his work, not even realizing just how much time had passed. All that mattered was the evidence, that he must find and catalogue it all without missing anything which may prove crucial later on.

A small pang in his stomach made him pause to consider the last time he'd eaten. Had it been two days ago? Three? He supposed that the rush on this case was not as severe as it usually was, perhaps it was time to introduce some calories. One swift text later, and John was on his way with Chinese takeout, with extra sugar-doughnuts, as always.

The diminutive doctor reeled as he came upon the sight of the lab in which Sherlock had spent the majority of the past week. His small scribbles of numbers, computations, and other observations covered the walls and writing boards. Where the ink in the dry-erase markers had run out, the obsessive research had continued on in crayon wax, spreading out onto nearly every vertical surface. God knows where Sherlock had managed to find those.

A sniff of the steaming little cartons, and Sherlock nearly leaped upon John and ransacked his offering. "You really ought to make your meals more regular," John complained plaintively, "It's nearly physically painful to watch you treat your body so poorly. Next time, at least one meal a day?"

Sherlock only made a muffled noise around his noodles, and John would just have to accept that.


	49. Coffee

Sherlock glanced over at John, who was plugging away at the busy-work Sherlock had assigned him. They had to make it through this pile of lab notes in order to find the discrepancy between those stored in the computer systems at Bart's. The small detail, whatever it would prove to be, was the key to locating the lost inheritance of their client and his niece. The two flatmates had already been pouring over the tiny, handwritten notes for the past two days, working nonstop through the nights. (John had called in sick from work.)

A brief pause found John in the kitchen, making himself a beverage. Coffee, Sherlock guessed, before the rich aromas reached him in the sitting room. John drank tea to relax, but coffee to keep himself awake. This usually only ever happened during a case, as otherwise he was quite keen on getting his self-prescribed eight hours.


	50. Brick

Sherlock reeled as his strength wavered and his legs went out from under him, vision fading in and out a bit. His stomach cramped painfully as he fell to the cobblestones below, the quarry he had been chasing through the streets of London finally able to escape his pursuit. John put their target out of his mind, immediately rushing to Sherlock's side as he gripped a pale wrist between his fingers, quickly reassuring himself that the pulse, while weaker than it ought to have been after running like that, was still there.

John checked Sherlock's other vital signs, coming to the quick diagnoses that his friend had finally exhausted himself, and had collapsed in a fall induced by fatigue and starvation. They'd been on the case for four days now, and John had been keeping a close eye on Sherlock, who had refused to ingest anything solid for fear of it bringing him off of his top game. John had prepared himself for this eventuality, pulling an energy bar out of his pocket after having dragged Sherlock to the side of the alley and propped him up against the brick wall.

The very picture of a caretaker or mother hen, John broke off small pieces of the carb-and-protien-packed brick of food and pressed them gently to Sherlock's lips. "You'll eat this and you'll like it," he insisted, ensuring that Sherlock accepted the food and got a bit of rest. After a few minute's pause, John hauled Sherlock up onto his feet and into Angelo's restaurant, which was only about a block away. Damn their case, he was NOT going to let his flatmate go another minute without a hearty meal. Pasta was as good a choice as any.


	51. Shoe

Sherlock had scorned the masses of humanity, when the sappiness had been all-consuming and overwhelming as he and John had walked on a short outing on Valentine's day. "People are so sentimental," Sherlock had sneered, "But to what end? Do they believe it proves the strength of their bond? Are they comforted by it?" John had only had a vague idea of an answer as he wound his arm through the crook of Sherlock's elbow, nothing so clear as to put into words.

It was only later, months later, that John realized that Sherlock had a bit of sentiment about certain things, himself. He tended to keep little mementos that reminded him of his favorite cases. The pink cell phone, Carl Powers' shoe, the London A-Z with the cipher still written all over it. John tried to commit this facet to memory, so as to bring it up if Sherlock ever broached the subject again.


	52. Spoiled Milk

Just home from shopping, John hauled the bags full of food into the kitchen and set them down on the floor. Turning to the fridge with a sense of dread, he steeled himself for what horrors may lie within. Already wincing in anticipation, he reached out and tugged the door open. It was relatively tame today, to the untrained eye it might have even seemed normal. But John knew that the liver sitting shrink-wrapped on the middle shelf was probably not bovine in origin.

He sighed and scooted it aside, making room for the fresh groceries. It was always on shopping days like this that he dared to wish for a normal flatmate, who would ensure that the worst thing he would have to worry about finding in the fridge would be spoiled milk.


	53. Loss

Sherlock had quickly discovered the true reason, behind the pretenses, for why John had made a request to own a couch. With only the two armchairs for relaxing in, the two flatmates had been comfortable, but separate. This way, John was able to wind down from the day's stress while simultaneously keeping contact with Sherlock. He had found it slightly odd, at first, when John had settled in next to him and rested his sandy-haired head on a bony shoulder, though he realized in contemplation that after the events on the rooftop and in the ferris wheel, it actually wasn't that odd at all.

Now, a few weeks later, Sherlock had become happily acclimated to the gentle and unimposing contact, and as John rose from the couch to head to bed, Sherlock had to hold himself back from whimpering at the loss of warmth and the soothing stroking that John had sustained on Sherlock's knee for the past half hour. The suddenly lonesome detective was fiercely tempted to follow John, but figured that he had left for a reason, and wanted the time to himself.

There was always tomorrow night, Sherlock reassured himself.


	54. Blast

Sherlock eyed the blue box dubiously. Sure, it may have contained unknown technology, and sure, it may appear to be bigger on the inside, but there was no visible form of propulsion. He seriously doubted that the thing was space-worthy as its apparent owner, this strange man in a bow-tie, had claimed with conviction. John seemed to share Sherlock's train of thought, as he spoke up with a frown, "There's no way in hell this thing can blast off into space."

"No, no, of course not," the self-proclaimed Time Lord waved his hand as though shooing away such a silly notion. "It's not really a blast so much as... a rough intrusion into the time-space vortex. Much more of a shortcut, no atmosphere to deal with. Though with such a limited understanding of the concept, it really would be easier for me to just show you!" The Doctor threw both doors wide open and strode into the cavernous inside excitedly.

John peered into the box again, nearly disoriented by the optical illusion, and turned back to where Sherlock had been standing... only to find that the curious detective had already boarded the strange thing, and was pacing around what appeared to be central control panel, inspecting its various instruments. He looked up impatiently and called, "Come along, John!"


	55. Macbeth

Sherlock was positive their victim had been wearing a tie, but the offending accessory was nowhere to be found. He had scoured the surrounding area, but to no avail. "Do you think the murderer has it?" John asked, shivering a bit in the chilly breeze coming off the Thames.

"No, I doubt it, there's no reason for him to keep it, unless it could be used as incriminating evidence. Which it might, we won't know until we find it." The detective poked and prodded at one of the many apps on his phone, though John couldn't see the relevance. In fact, he couldn't even see the "unmissable" evidence that there had even BEEN a tie in the first place...

"I'm sure it'll turn up eventually," he said without thinking, giving Sherlock a consoling pat on the shoulder. The taller man stiffened in his stance with a sharp intake of breath.

"JOHN," he hissed, "Do you want us to solve this case or not?" At the doctor's confused expression, he extrapolated, "You've just doomed us as badly as saying 'break a leg' or 'Macbeth' on opening night of a play!"

John frowned at the accusation, never having pegged Sherlock as the superstitious type.


	56. Dance

It was lucky for John that he had been raised with relatively good grammar, as he discovered one day when Sherlock had frustratedly rejected a client with a particularly bad case of cockney slang. "Why'd you do that?" he called from the kitchen, already brewing a pot to soothe the two of them.

"Do what?" Sherlock called back, snatching his violin from its case to pluck at it in agitation.

"Go all grammar-nazi whenever someone... I dunno, uses incorrect tenses?" A warm sizzle from the burner had already set John's associative reflexes to calming.

Sherlock paused with the violin poised at his chin, contemplating the question. "Just how Mummy raised us, I suppose," he admitted, "She had us go through the whole regimen of how the upper-class, educated young Englishman should behave. Etiquette, dance, hosting, grammar and the likes."

"Hold up," John poked his head out of the kitchen, one eyebrow quirked, "Did you say dance?" Sherlock only nodded, his expression grim. "You don't mean ballroom, do you?" Another grudging nod, and John was beaming with the thought of his beloved sociopath, hand-in-hand with the tutor or his brother, or even John himself as they waltzed through a crowd. He knew better than to ask, though, as he was sure Sherlock had probably already deleted such useless knowledge from his hard drive.


	57. Who?

Mrs. Hudson frowned as her daytime telly was drowned out by a strange wooshing sound coming from outside her window, unlike anything anything she'd ever heard before. Rising carefully from the couch (her hip was particularly bad today), she shuffled over to the front window to see if she could spy the source of the noise. A long pause, then the noise seemed to reverse itself just as the front door swung open quickly, admitting her boys from 221B. She hadn't seen them this happy and excited since the last big serial murderer case! "Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, "What have you gotten yourself into?"

"Space and time, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock gripped her excitedly around the shoulders as John shed his jacket, shutting the front door behind himself. "We've just been with the Doctor!"

Mrs. Hudson hadn't heard Sherlock mention any other doctor other than John, but this sounded important. "Doctor who, dear?"

Sherlock was about to try to explain, but John placed a hand on each of their shoulders. "Don't worry about it," he smiled, "just a new friend we've met. Maybe next time he comes by you'll get to meet him too." And with that, the two troublemakers clambered upstairs, leaving Mrs. Hudson wondering if this third fellow would be needing a room as well. Perhaps she could finally find a tenant for 221C!


	58. Freedom

Even with all its dullness and lack of stimulation, Sherlock found that he was enjoying his and John's trip to the countryside far more than he had anticipated. The doctor kept remarking on the quality of the air, and Sherlock found himself silently appreciating it as he slapped on a nicotine patch. They may be enjoying the surroundings, but Sherlock knew he mustn't let himself forget that they were simultaneously on a case. About three miles from where the two had just checked into a small bed-and-breakfast, lay the country club where their victim had been a regular member. They'd be paying a visit there later today, and probably the day after that... just as soon as they got settled into their room.

John grabbed his overnight bag from the back seat of the rental car, shooting a glance at Sherlock, who seemed to have been staring at him (or through him), lost in thought as the country air billowed through his curls. "Sherlock?" He queried as he passed the darkly-clad city boy, snapping him out of his contemplation. "All right?"

"Perfectly fine," Sherlock turned to him with a smile, his own overnight bag in hand. The thing he enjoyed most about this rural setting, he realized, was the freedom that came with not being surrounded by his brother's CCTV cameras. With no prying eyes peering in through their window, he was free to do as he pleased with no fear (well, less fear, as Mycroft always seemed to know SOMETHING) of a lecture afterwards. Sherlock looked forward to exercising this freedom tonight, during the small opportunity that his flat-mate would become his roommate.


	59. Lift

It had been a particularly windy day, and Sherlock's hair had still not recovered its usual large curls. The detective had quickly tried to tame the black frizz before their meeting in the executive office of the insurance company, but had had little success. It was fortunate for their bank account, then, that their new employer didn't much care what Sherlock looked like, so long as he was able to prove that the fire had been deliberate insurance fraud.

It was about halfway down their trip from the top floor when the wind knocked out a transformer, and the power to the whole building suddenly died down. John glanced up and around in alarm at the emergency lights, quickly calming as he realized what had happened. He only hoped it wouldn't be long before the power returned, as the longer he spent in the confined space the longer it started to remind him of the hide-holes he'd had to crawl into in search of terrorists.

"Well," he quipped, trying to keep his tone light, "It's a good thing we aren't in a drama show on the telly," He smiled up at Sherlock, who seemed to have forgotten how ridiculous his hair looked.

"Why's that?" The detective leaned against the wall and pulled out his phone, boredom already sinking in.

"Because in those shows, whenever two people are stuck in a lift like this, they seem to always somehow end up snogging!" He laughed at the idea, but quickly stopped when he realized that Sherlock's eyes had narrowed just the slightest, accompanied by a little curl to the corner of his lips.


	60. Marathon

John watched in amusement as Sherlock and their client jogged around the sidewalk loop in the park. Sherlock had left his coat with John, sleeves rolled up as he kept pace with Henry, the insurance CEO, training to participate in the upcoming marathon next month. He was putting on a front, Sherlock had told John, by running the 5000km for charity donations. The two were now engaged in breathless conversation, exchanging details and advice. As the businessman's training session came to a close, he slowed and stopped near John's bench, tipping his entire torso back to drink energetically from a water bottle. Sherlock was right on his tail, and John handed him a bottle he'd brought along for the day.

"You're quite good at this," Henry said after he'd had his fill, his breathing returning to normal after a bit. He gave Sherlock a friendly, encouraging slap on the back and started a few cool-down stretches. "Maybe you should enter into the marathon too!"

Sherlock retrieved his coat and re-donned it, smirking at the compliment, "I suppose all those nights chasing after criminals through the back-streets of London has some secondary benefits. Perhaps I'll consider it if nothing else of importance interferes."

John had to stifle a giggle at the idea of Sherlock in a tank-top and running shorts.


	61. Rain

John had missed many things whilst abroad in Afghanistan. He had missed the native language, of course, having never learned Arabic or any other language besides Latin (useless) in Secondary school. He had missed the fast food, of all things, how satisfying it was to be able to pick up a burger or fish and chips in an instant and feel the grease nearly running down your chin. The medical training in him cringed and scolded him for this habit, but it was an undeniable factor of home.

John missed the trees. Oh sure, there were trees in the middle-east, but they were all scraggly, colourless things which hardly even provided shade, nonetheless oxygen or scenery.

But most of all, oddly enough, John missed the rain. His soggy little island of a home seemed absolutely lush in comparison to this arid wasteland of a country. Here, the air would dry out your lips in a few hours, and the sun would beat down on you without reprise for as long as it possibly could, and even THEN the nights were still hot and dry and silent.

Not entirely silent, as the gunfire and bombshells never quite seemed to stop from somewhere in the distance (or when they were very unlucky, quite close by). Without a comforting rain now and again to provide some distraction, the world seemed a much grimmer place, where nothing existed but war.


	62. Spoon

John sighed when he saw Sherlock sprawled out over all three of the couch cushions, covered in no less than two blankets, his head propped on the arm rest as he stared, glassy-eyed with boredom at the talk-show program currently prattling away through the night. John hadn't been able to get back to sleep after his most recent nightmare (an afghani child, half his body blown away and bleeding profusely). He had sat in bed for a while, trying to forget the look of horror and pain which had remained burned in the backs of his eyes, just listening to the sounds of the city at night, and the muffled talking of the telly downstairs. After awhile, he had donned his slippers and shuffled down to the sitting room to join Sherlock for some company, to get the afterimage out of his head.

"Budge up," he'd mumbled, just loudly enough to be heard over the inane chatter, as he stood looming over Sherlock's head, arms crossed across his chest for warmth- a tee shirt was not quite warm enough in the current season when not wrapped in a blanket (or four, in Sherlock's case).

Sherlock only groaned into the armrest, a groan which could loosely be heard as "Don't wanna sit up," his right arm draped lazily over the side of the couch cushion, hanging out from under the edge of the blankets.

"You don't have to sit up," John sighed, coming around to stand in the way of Sherlock's view, "Just move over." Sherlock slowly complied, rolling more onto his side and scooting back against the back of the couch, his left arm gripping the blankets to keep them from sliding off. John lifted the edge of the blankets and crawled in under them as quickly as possible, to keep the cold air from rushing in. There was just enough room for him to lie comfortably, though his back was pressed in firmly against Sherlock's chest.

A short period of adjustment, and soon Sherlock found himself perfectly spooning his best friend, their knees and legs parallel as their height difference allowed John to rest his head on Sherlock's right arm, already warming back up in the oven Sherlock had created under the blankets. John's mind had already released its fixation on the violent images, and the warmth began to lull him back to sleep. Sherlock sighed gently into John's hair, a smile of contentment on his lips as he slowly, tentatively curled an arm around the shorter man's waist (to keep him from falling off the couch, of course), just as he observed his breathing slowing to a state of unconsciousness. He hoped the laugh track on the late-night sitcom which had just started wouldn't wake him.


	63. Peacock

Sherlock pouted silently in his armchair, the violin in his arms seemingly forgotten as he watched John flit around the flat, preparing excitedly for his upcoming date. Not that he d said anything to Sherlock, thinking that a non-mention of the event was a non-invitation, that perhaps it would keep his friend from interfering, just once...

Sherlock sighed, resigned to spend the night alone with his kitchen lab set. He silently agreed with John's silent hope, but JUST this once. He knew that the poor doctor had his needs, and as such felt compelled to seek out women with whom those needs could be met. Sherlock shuddered to think of what happened on those nights when John didn't come home.

Finally, after hours of anxious anticipation on John's part, she arrived with a knock at the door. Sherlock did his best to ignore her, all prettied up in a peacock-print dress (Sherlock nearly gagged) and far too much mascara, her hibiscus perfume overpowering the subtle scent of honey which had been lingering around the flat for the better part of a week.

A few minutes of meaningless chatter, and they were gone.


	64. Midnight

John awoke in the small bed-and-breakfast, his heart still pounding at the sounds of gunfire that his brain had conjured up. A quick glance at his watch (illuminated by the solid moonbeam from the window) told him that it was just a few minutes past midnight. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and his coat was missing from the rack near the door.

John frowned and stuffed his feet into his shoes unceremoniously, wrapping his jacket around his pajamas before heading out into the hall to search for Sherlock. A quick glance around told him that the mysterious detective must have made it all the way outside, so with a shudder of anticipation at the chill, John steeled himself and followed. He found with a pleasant surprise that it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared, and glanced back only once in longing at the thought of a warm bed before setting out.

He didn't have far to go. Just over the hill, at the side of the small pond, was the silhouette of a tall, lanky figure with a mess of curls, the dark shadowy shape outlined by the luminescent reflection on the water. John slowly trudged over to the edge of the quietly-lapping banks, sidling up close next to Sherlock. A glance up at him nearly blinded John (whose eyes had become quite adjusted to the night) as the pale white of Sherlock's neck seemed to catch every beam of moonlight and starlight jumping off the fluid surface as he craned his head back to gaze upon the heavens.

John followed his gaze, nearly gasping in awe at the sight of the billions of stars planted in the velvety sky, so vibrant and clear compared to those visible from the city. He had been treated to a very similar view almost every night in Afghanistan, but had nearly forgotten these past few months. John supposed that to Sherlock, accustomed to being indoors and surrounded by cameras and street lights, it must have been a very grand sight indeed.

John scooted closer and slipped his hand into Sherlock's pocket, snapping the genius out of his meditative observation. He smiled down at the doctor and squeezed at his cold fingers. "I can see why Alex Woodbridge spent all his time doing this," he nearly whispered, arching his head back to trace his vision along the faint stream of the Milky Way.


	65. Elementary

John supposed he should have been less surprised when Moriarty resurfaced. After all, if Sherlock had been able to so convincingly fake his own death, then it stood to reason that the feat was not out of Moriarty's range of capabilities. In the days that followed, Sherlock had been running on a wild goose chase, hunting down every last clue which could possibly bring him closer. After all, his time apart from John, ensuring his safety from those few snipers still loyal to Moriarty, would all be for naught if the mastermind had managed to build up his web again.

Sherlock was pacing anxiously through the flat, flipping through a chemistry textbook, muttering softly to himself. He paused here and there on pages which might provide an answer to the riddle Moriarty had left them, "ElemeNtary or primAry, it's not for Sale."

He had already exhausted the pages on Nitrogen, Argon, and Sulfur, but had not found anything satisfactory. John wondered if there was a connection to school, but figured that the possibility had already been considered ten-fold. In cases like these, it was usually best to just keep quiet and out of the way.


	66. Popcorn

A pounding of feet down the stairs, and John was rushing his way around the flat to hurriedly prepare for work. He was late, but still paused for a moment to sigh in dismay at the state of the sitting room. The couch was a mess, with blankets strewn about everywhere, the telly still on (with a blank screen left over after the DVD player had turned itself off), and an entire bucket of popcorn was spilled and lightly strewn about the floor. It looked almost as though Sherlock had left in as much of a hurry as John was in now.

The weary doctor headed out to work, considering suitable punishments for the mess Sherlock had left behind. The popcorn would make an excellent snack for the few waterfowl that graced the Thames.


	67. Glass

Returning from work, John frowned a bit as he ascended the stairs to the sound of Sherlock wearily calling out from the sitting room, "Johnnn. John. Jawn. Jooohhhhnnn."

John climbed the last stair with a sigh, "What, Sherlock."

"I'm cold. I'm bored and I'm cold and it's dreadful." The man was halfway stooped over, leaning against the window with a dead look upon his face, which was pressed firmly against the glass. His breath had not only fogged on the surface, but had started to frost around the edges where it had been there too long.

"How long have you been there, calling my name?" John came over and tugged Sherlock away from the window, trying not to notice just how pale his grey eyes seemed as they reflected the white light of the snowfall, and instead focuses on the white spots which the cold glass had left in the skin on Sherlock's cheekbone, brow, and chin. He deposited the silly detective onto the couch and wrapped him in a few of the blankets that seemed to never leave the sitting room these days, heading into the kitchen to start a pot of tea.

"Not sure," Sherlock answered slowly, "But long enough to observe changes in the crystallization patterns of the snowflakes as the precipitation grows heavier. Also, I'm certain I found two which were identical."

"That's nice," John smirked, glancing over the hunched form of his friend. He really would have to find something for Sherlock to do while waiting for a case. Perhaps he could convince him to take up knitting, if only to be productive in his boredom.


	68. Bail

"Yeah. Okay. That's fine, I'll be there in a bit." John sighed as he ended his phone call and grabbed his jacket.

"Who was that?" Sherlock set down his culture tray and leaned against the doorframe into the kitchen, watching John prepare to leave.

"A correctional officer," John grumbled, "Harry's got herself another DUI and needs me to bail her out. I only hope it doesn't overdraw my account."

Sherlock stalked into his bedroom, returning with his chequebook in hand. He signed the topmost cheque and handed it to John. "Use this if you need to," he told him with a pat on the shoulder, "My account should still be bloated from the insurance payoff." John smiled and slipped the blank cheque into his jacket pocket, and headed out to catch a cab to the Yard.

It was only after John left that Sherlock realized what had been nagging him in the back of his mind. Neither of them had remembered that Harry was trying to make up with Clara, and was out of town for the next two weeks.

Sherlock sprinted down the stairs, hoping to catch John before he walked into a trap.


	69. Skull

Jim crossed his legs and leaned back into his desk chair, fingers steepled under his chin (a habit he seemed to have picked up during his surveillance of Sherlock). He'd been working on a case involving a client who was a member of the Bulgarian parliament, and wanted an assassination which would innocently catapult him into a position of greater power. It could be done, but would require quite a bit of setup. Jim ensured the pay would be extraordinary.

As he silently planned, completely still except for the times when he would jot down a quick email to his various connections, he kept his eyes fixated on Sebastian. The gunman had disassembled the tools of his livelihood, and was taking great care in polishing every square inch of each individual part. A soft cloth to the triggers, a wire brush to the barrels, the details bored Jim. Instead he shifted his gaze slightly to Moran's skull.

Just as carefully as Sebastian inspected his tools, so now Jim inspected his own personal tool. The brown hair had started to grow a bit shaggy around the ears, and a slight sheen of sweat was draped over his forehead. They would need a distraction to mask the assassination. Seb's jawline had grown a bit gaunt, was Jim not feeding him enough? Perhaps an explosion was in order; that would be more than enough chaos. A light hunch was forming between the primary vertebrae of Seb's neck.

"Are you quite finished?" Jim demanded impatiently, tapping one flawless shoe against his floor.

"I dunno," Sebastian smirked, "Have you had your fill of oggling me?"


	70. Crescent

Sherlock awoke to the smell of something delicious. Butter, at the very least, and perhaps something chocolate? The oven was filling the flat with an enticing aroma which had Sherlock instantly out of bed and into the kitchen (thankfully remembering to put on a robe first). John had just removed a tray from the oven, lined with sixteen perfectly-browned crescent rolls, drizzled with melted chocolate. The very steam rising from their crisp surface seemed divine.

"Ah, you're up," John smiled as Sherlock poked his head into the kitchen, already fixated on the sweets, "I was just fixing breakfast." He indicated a freshly-cleared table, covered with a spread of fresh fruit, eggs, and bacon. "I figured since you'd finished your last study, you could spare the kitchen table for at least one decent meal."

Sherlock only mumbled incoherently, largely ignoring the spread of healthier items as he leaned over John at the stove, resting his chin on a head of sandy hair as he inhaled the precious sugar-laden steam. John only sighed happily, leaning back against Sherlock to enjoy the moment. He found an arm had curled around him, and he didn't mind in the least.

After the rolls had been given a moment to cool, however, the arm extended to claim one as Sherlock quickly pilfered it back to his bedroom, leaving John in the kitchen, quite miffed, with a breakfast too large for himself.


	71. Generator

John stood, pinned into the corner of the lift with nowhere to go, as his best friend and flat-mate closed in on him with a devilish expression on his face (which John could barely even see in the dim emergency lighting). "Um, Sherlock..." John pressed his palms flat against the walls, as though searching (in vain) for somewhere to escape to. His pulse raced, and the small space in which they were enclosed seemed to become even smaller by the second.

Sherlock inched in closer, his gaze shifting toward John's left hand as he reached for it, gently tugging John away from the wall and into his arms. He wrapped his short friend in a tight hug and murmured into his hair, "Don't worry, John. Not if you don't want to."

John separated himself slightly to look up at Sherlock, gaining a very unflattering view up his nostrils, and smiled in spite of himself. He was about to lean in to continue Sherlock's train of thought, just as the generators finally kicked in and sent their lift back on its route to the ground floor. Just in time, the two separated to keep up an appearance of decency before the doors opened to admit them to the lobby.


	72. Terrified

Sherlock stood quietly in John's doorframe, the silhouette of the doctor's body illuminated only by the orange city lights glowing in from the window. Sherlock became increasingly concerned as the world-weary veteran tossed and turned in his sleep, muffled "No"s and "help"s occasionally escaping his lips as he thrashed about in the sheets. Sherlock could see the deep wrinkles in the sheet where John's fingers gripped it so tightly it seemed it might tear. Soon, the poor doctor was trembling and panting in his sleep, seemingly terrified by whatever his mind was haunting him with.

Sherlock could take it no longer, making the decision that John's comfort was far more important than his eight hours of sleep. He crossed the few feet between the door and the bed, and crawled in to curl his lanky limbs around John, wincing only a little as he was struck with an unconscious fist. A few moments of gentle stroking at his ribs, and a firm grip around the pelvis with his leg, and John's fitful nightmare seemed to slowly release its hold on him. Eventually he turned his head to find Sherlock wrapped around him, breathing softly into his ear. A smile which Sherlock could not see crinkled the lines on John's face. He rolled to face the man who had invaded his bed, and curled an arm around him in thanks, burying his nose in against Sherlock's trachea to try to get back to sleep.


	73. Kiss

Sherlock glanced at the empty mug that John set on the end table with a muffled little thud, his heart already sinking a bit. The end of John's tea usually signified an oncoming end to his time spent on the couch with Sherlock, in a mindless, telly-induced domestic bliss. Before John could gather himself up to shuffle off into the kitchen, Sherlock caught him gently by the right arm, giving a gentle squeeze to his brachioradialis, which caused John to pause and cover Sherlock's hand with his left one. Ever since Sherlock's return, they'd been sharing these subtle platonic touches, which almost seemed to serve as another form of communication. (Far easier to learn than code phrases like "Vatican cameos," Sherlock admitted to himself) John usually would be the one to bring about the contact; Sherlock would only do so when it was very important. He wondered what was so important now, that made him reach out to prevent John's departure?

John smiled up at Sherlock, the subtle light of the screen flashing across his face as he grasped a little tighter at Sherlock's hand, pulling him in closer to plant a slow, gentle kiss on Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock found his fingers curling in with John's, again preventing him from dismissing himself after a good-night kiss. (That hadn't been so platonic, after all.) In their unspoken little code language, Sherlock brought John back to that personal-bubble range which had never before seemed so... frightening. His heart pounding just a little tighter, Sherlock did his best to reciprocate John's unimposing little venture, doing his best to aim in the dark as his lips met against John's nose, eliciting a soft chuckle. An invisible flush swept across Sherlock's cheeks, and John used his years of experience in the dark to close the small remaining gap, matching his lips against Sherlock's. A brief pause of mental adjustment as Sherlock's world took a great leap of a paradigm shift, and before he knew it his lips had been pried gently apart by John's tongue, and oh, Sherlock could taste the last traces of his tea.

Sherlock inhaled deeply against John's cheek as he let the doctor explore his mouth for a moment, sneaking his long arms around the older man to cradle him like he would his violin. As he released the breath he'd been holding, Sherlock pulled gently away from the kiss and nuzzled his way past John's jawline, ignoring the stubble as it scraped at his cheek. He held his friend tightly against his chest, not knowing what to say, but knowing that he should say something, now that he had his ear so conveniently located.

Again, John took the initiative. "It's past my bedtime, Sherlock. You're always welcome if you like." And with one more peck on the cheek, John stood, carried his mug to the kitchen as always, and made his way upstairs.


	74. Spider

John had never been too terribly fond of spiders, what with their gangly legs and little tiny fangs, and webs that stuck to your face if you didn't see them in time. Sure, everyone told him they ate other pests, but that didn't make them any better. The desert had been a pleasant reprieve from all sorts of creepy-crawlies, spiders included.

It was fitting, then, John decided, when Sherlock compared Moriarty to a spider; though John got the sense that Sherlock did it moreso out of a sense of admiration... For the cunning way in which the two creatures could set an intricate, invisible trap. John shuddered at the thought.

However, there was one instance where the image of a spider was calming, rather than disturbing- The five-legged pink spider which played upon the four-stringed web of Sherlock's violin. This spider was accompanied by beautiful music, and it posed no harm. The food it hunted was scones and biscuits, its legs would curl around evidence and swords and sometimes, at the times when he considered himself lucky, John's fingers.


	75. Baking

"Sherlock," John called into the kitchen from his armchair, "Why do you suppose they call it Baker street?"

Without looking up from his focus on the water surface tension, diluting a meniscus in gradients, Sherlock called back, "It's named for the man who founded it, William Baker."

"Oh." John sighed a bit. How dull. "'Cause I was just thinking, you know, there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of baking that goes on around here, aside from down at Speedy's. Just seems a bit... contrary, don't you think?"

"Only if you consider every other mis-named street to be contrary," Sherlock chided as he carefully poked another drop of blood into his petri dish. "And in any case, those croissants you made the other morning were quite a culinary feat, probably the best this whole street has seen in years." John only just caught a hint of a smirk on the detective's lips.

John made up his mind to get hold of some of that organic honey again, and treat the entire street to a round of home-made honey buns. If that didn't stop Mrs. Hudson complaining about her hip, nothing would!


	76. Crew

John had hardly been able to recognize Sherlock when he returned. And not just because he'd been dead for so long, either. His face was gaunt, more-so than usual, he'd actually acquired a bit of a tan, his clothes were those of a casual student, and his loose, dark curls had been sheared off into a close-cropped crew cut. He hardly looked himself, and John wouldn't have realized at all who had approached him, had it not been for those telltale cheekbones.  
Which soon earned themselves a good punch.


	77. Salt

John lay spread-eagle on the bed, the tee shirt he'd worn as pajamas hiked up around his armpits, and his shorts lost somewhere in the sheets bunched up at the foot of the bed. Sherlock, as dressed as he ever was while in bed (not at all), knelt between John's knees as he caught his breath. John had been fantastic, always attentive to Sherlock's comfort level, and now Sherlock wanted to return the favor. His favorite person in world lay before him, trembling and vulnerable and exposed, and needing more.

Sherlock was happy to oblige. He gave John one more firm hug around his waist, leaning in for a swift kiss before he worked his lips down over John's abdomen. It was fascinating enough to watch his stomach sink in after every kiss, almost as though ticklish to the gentle touch. Sherlock dragged his fingertips over John's pelvic ridges, his lips just passing the navel surrounded with blonde peach-fuzz. The fuzz gradually thickened and darkened as Sherlock made his way lower, carefully avoiding the awkward alignment which would happen if John's tip hit against his neck during the voyage. Sherlock paused his oral advances for a moment, halfway dreading what came next as he steeled his nerves, fingertips sliding up over John's thighs to play between them with a gentle squeeze. He continued before John could pick up on his hesitation and put up a fuss.

Sherlock wondered how anyone could take this seriously. He had to stifle a snort as John's coarse hairs tickled at his nose with every inhale, and his mouth quickly seemed to dry out as he tried to conjure enough saliva to soothe the friction against John's sensitive skin. A soft gasp from somewhere above his head informed Sherlock that yes, the frenulum was a very good location to focus on. Just as well, since Sherlock's previously-untested gag reflex wouldn't let him go much further.

It was fortunate that John had started this foray, and had been pent up for so long a duration. Otherwise, Sherlock would have been disappointed at having to stop (from a sore jaw) before John was satisfied. That was not the case, however, as after just a few minutes Sherlock soon found that his mouth and throat had quickly filled with a hot, slippery liquid, saltier than anything Sherlock had ever ingested previously. He did his best to swallow most of it down, but had to pause and lick his arm to purge the taste. John, still panting up at the ceiling with his fists clenched into the sheets, didn't notice.

Finally, Sherlock felt better about John's state of mind, and crawled back up the bed to curl himself around the spent veteran.

"Sherlock, that was amazing," John panted.

"God, that was awful," Sherlock huffed simultaneously.

The two stared at each other for a moment before bursting out into giggles, and John rolled onto his side to wrap his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him in tightly in a hug of gratitude. He buried his nose in Sherlock's curls and planted a firm kiss there. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," he reminded his less-experienced partner, "But if it helps, I know a few tricks to improve the taste."


	78. Weave

Sherlock ducked behind a newspaper bin. Had he been seen? A moment passed, two, then a shot rang out in his direction. The pedestrians surrounding him panicked and fled, ducking indoors or into their cars, or just running down the street. Sherlock joined the en-masse fleeing, but ducked into an alley before any stray shots caused casualties to those still on the main street.  
Rapid footsteps and another gunshot told him that his quarry (now his assailant) wasn't far behind. Sherlock did his best to dodge and weave, though it probably would not pose a challenge to the trained sniper. Finally, a wall which Sherlock was only just tall enough to grab onto (the sniper was a head shorter) presented itself in a dead end, and Sherlock took the opportunity quickly, struggling and kicking his way up and over the edge to drop and roll on the opposite side.

The fugitive detective ducked into a building to catch his breath. He would have change his appearance again, now this target had seen him. If only John knew the lengths to which Sherlock was going for his sake.


	79. Sweat

John fanned himself lazily with the front of his tee shirt as a bead of sweat rolled between his pectorals. It had been a particularly hot morning, and the rising heat had collected in his upstairs bedroom, forcing him out of bed and into the kitchen for some fresh air.

He'd been up for awhile now, and had sat down at his computer to check on the blog and see if there might be a new case. Sherlock's boredom was starting to become extreme; yesterday he'd resorted to pulling out the phone book and (mentally) sorting all the surnames by frequency. Today, he was still holed up in his bedroom, sound asleep. It was odd to have the house so quiet, as John was used to being last to rise. Finally, however, he heard the sounds of Sherlock stirring, and called back to him, "There's a new client asking about you, sounds interesting. Might be a 7 or an 8." John stood to put a kettle on and some bread in the toaster.

Sherlock rushed out to the computer, eager to take on something to dull the boredom. John turned and nearly snorted jam up his nose, a flush spreading across his cheeks to add to the sweat from the day's haze. Sherlock, in either his excitement or in an attempt to keep cool, had come straight from bed, and this time had not even bothered with a sheet.

John tried not to stare at his arse, gleaming white in the mid-morning sun.


	80. Town

Sherlock groaned as he tried to open his eyes, and found that one of them had crusted and swelled itself shut, throbbing nearly as painfully as his left kidney. Two voices conversed somewhere to his left, but his brain was not yet ready to comprehend them.

A while later, Sherlock came to good and proper, though kept his eyes closed (from pain) to listen to his surroundings. "What do you suppose the boss will do with him?"

"Don't care." A gruff voice seemed tired of being there.

Sherlock cracked open his better eye and found himself tied to an uncomfortable wooden chair. "Where am I?" he creaked in a low baritone. The two large men in black suits turned towards him, one amused and the other almost seeming to not notice him at all.

"You're in our custody, Mr. Holmes," said the first one, "and that's all you need to know."

"Who are you?" His further quest for knowledge earned Sherlock a firm-knuckled grind to the collarbone, along with an answer.

"I'm Mr. Town," spat the more stoic, shorter-haired man. "And this is my associate, Mr. Stone. Our employer has business with you. Mr. World, he's called now, though he said you'd know him better as Jim." Town paused awkwardly, then in a sing-song voice, "Hiiiii."


	81. Professional

It had been a week, and Sherlock was close to giving up. He was no closer to finding the crucial, missing piece of evidence (the victim's neck tie after all) as he had been at the start of the case. The frustration was starting to get to him, his curls becoming frazzled around the edges and his behavior becoming more manic than usual. He swung from polar opposites, depressed and lethargic on the couch to wild and pacing between the kitchen and the restaurant at the end of Baker street. Lestrade had stopped asking him about it after the third attempt had found him with his nose nearly snapped off in a fit of Sherlockian rage.

John couldn't take much more of it. Pride be damned, he thought, as he started searching for help. "Professional finder" on google turned up a surprisingly promising lead- Promising until John read that the Finder was located in Florida. He was about to move on to something else, until he read at the bottom of Sherman's website, "Have case, will travel. Call for details."

Soon, Sherlock found John handing him the phone. "Who is this," he demanded quickly, crossing one arm over his chest.

A deep booming voice, American accent, answered quite calmly, "My name is Leo Knox, Mister Holmes, and I represent the answer to your problems."


	82. Gloves

John shook his head as Sherlock barged into another crime scene, leaving him behind on the roadside as he struggled to put on his hasmat suit as quickly as possible. Lestrade was wearing one, as were Donovan and Anderson. Only Sherlock had the impudence to glide in against the body to integrate himself into the facts, wearing nothing more protective than a pair of latex gloves. It was a familiar scene, and John still wondered how Sherlock managed to get away with it every time.

Lestrade looked pained as John caught a glance of him before heading out to join Sherlock in the bed of pine needles. He was reminded again of that first night when they'd met, and the competent-but-not-quite-competent-enough Detective Inspector had ruefully admitted his need of Sherlock's assistance. These days, through trial by fire, Lestrade hardly even spoke up against Sherlock's farfetched conclusions, never questioning his antics or the thoughtless way he took liberties at a crime scene that nobody else would dare try to get away with.

John felt a faint flash of pity for the DI's pride, but dismissed it as Sherlock had already approached them with three plausible explanations.


	83. Massage

Sherlock glanced up from his newspaper at John, who had set his laptop aside and seemed to be pinching his own hand. His face slowly fell from an agitated state to a more relaxed one, the wrinkles in his brow decreasing in depth as he leaned back into his armchair with a soft sigh. Finally, he let go of his odd grip and reached for his tea.

"What was that?" Sherlock leaned forward a bit in his chair, folding the paper in half to better keep it out of the way.

"What was what?" John tilted his head and Sherlock inclined his nose down in the direction of John's hands, mimicking the motion on his own. "Oh," John smiled softly, almost surprised Sherlock didn't know this one either, "Just a trick my therapist taught me." John scooted forward in his chair and reached out to grasp Sherlock's hand, using it as a visual (and tactile) aid, "There's a pressure point just here, between the metacarpals, at the top of the thenar crease-"

Sherlock looked on in curiosity as John began to gently massage this small, precise spot with his thumb and forefinger on either side of Sherlock's hand, just firm enough to reach gently into the flesh.

"It could be placebo for all I know," John continued, "But it's supposed to help relieve tension and focus the mind." Sherlock had to keep himself from curling his lip at the idea of the commoner's mind attempting to focus, and instead kept his concentration on the effects of John's thumb against his palm.

"It probably is just a placebo," he agreed softly, though had to admit to himself that he could already feel a gradual relaxation in his spine and thighs.


	84. Swing

John shifts in his sleep, turning over onto his left to let his right cool down. His dreams are erratic, that night, but not the horrifying, haunting images of war that usually occupy his REM. Tonight, they are bizarre and jumbled.  
He and Sherlock are running through London, leaping from rooftop to rooftop until their feet are no longer touching the buildings, and John is just following right behind as he always does, not daring to look down at the city below them. They just barely miss the London Eye as Sherlock's great belstaff coat spreads open in the wind, keeping them aloft.  
John is brewing tea and trying to spread jam on three slices of toast at once, and Sherlock is standing over his shoulder, shouting at him, how he's doing it wrong.  
Suddenly, Sherlock backs away with a look of depressed horror in John's general direction, "I never wanted to be a sociopath," he starts, ripping off his suit jacket to reveal beneath it, not his tight purple shirt but plaid flannel- "I wanted to be... a lumberjack! Swinging from tree to tree!"  
Then the two of them are young, John thinks in the back of his head about the word "regressed" as he chases a young scrawny boy with black curls shining in the sun, all around a playground and through the tube slides and over the monkey bars, pushing the swings aside with a rattling noise of the chains that wakes John from his fitful but not unpleasant dreams.  
He sighs as he hits the button on the alarm, visions still swirling in his head of soaring through the night sky behind a Sherlock who could fly instead of just fall.


	85. Diogenes Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was a request from someone compiling a book of fan-art!

Mycroft sighed (silently) and crossed his legs, carefully folding his newspaper to the next page. The one other occupant in the room politely ignored him. Mycroft knew the reason for the club's recent drop in attendance rates. Ever since he'd gotten more involved in the lives of his brother (and by extension, his brother's associates), the club had been paid numerous visits by non-members who simply didn't understand.  
Mycroft had tried explaining things to John upon his second visit to the club. "It's an establishment for persons with a need for companionable solitude," Mycroft had said over the tips of his fingers, hunched over his desk in his personal office.   
"You... DO know that's a contradiction, right?" John had squinted at the government official, one eyebrow quirked in confusion.   
"You should be more than familiar with the contradictory nature which resides about many factors of my life." Mycroft knew he wouldn't have to go into detail for his brother's companion to understand.   
However, the loud interruptions which forced the members of the club out of their precious headspace became more numerous as the days passed. First it was just John, then when he would admit to needing his official assistance, Sherlock; eventually their antics bled over until even the poor Detective Inspector became involved, and that had been the final straw.   
Nowadays, the club was emptier than it had ever been, though you wouldn't know by listening. Mycroft let a slight sigh of loneliness escape his lips, and the room's one other occupant stood and left.


	86. Demonstration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I had the idea to use the word in the context of it being their first time doing something together… But then for some reason, I started it out as being their first time sharing a bed, instead. Not sure why. It got too long, so I just made up the last couple paragraphs there to put into oneword, and then did my best to slap the two bits together.  
> Were there a such thing as final drafts with these, I'd probably redo it.

Sherlock had crawled into to John's bed an hour or so after the doctor had left the couch. It had been months since they'd first kissed, and the nightly routine had continued- Telly, tea, kiss, bed. Alone. Sherlock had finally worked up the nerve to join John this time, albeit after the talk show had ended. (He had to know he was right about the paternity test, after all!) The spots of warmth which John had shared against Sherlock's skin ebbed gently as the cold air seeped in in his absence.  
Sherlock crept up the stairs, doing his best to keep the boards from creaking too loudly, and stood awkwardly for a minute at the side of John's bed. He had succeeded in keeping him asleep, and now was starting to lose his resolve- surely the smallest shift in John's bed would wake him, wouldn't it?  
However, when the nightmares had set in, and Sherlock knew that waking the poor veteran might not be so bad an idea, he found himself wormed in under the duvet and wrapped around John in no time.

The next morning was a lazy one, no shift at the surgery for John, and no case to keep them occupied. Sherlock awoke to a tickling just below his ribs. Without opening his eyes, he knew the sensation (warm but slightly scratchy) was caused by John's fingers, slowly curling and uncurling against his skin. Sherlock tightened his grip around the warm frame of the man in his arms and murmured softly in a morning voice which must be nearly an octave lower than usual, "Good morning." He cracked an eye open to watch John's face.  
"Hi," the sleepy-eyed doctor replied with a warm, eye-creasing smile, his fingers still teasing gently at Sherlock's abdomen. "Thanks for um... coming to my rescue last night." He craned his neck out a bit and planted a firm kiss on Sherlock's chin, eliciting a soft wordless agreement from somewhere deep in the detective's throat. John's eyes fell to Sherlock's larynx, and he planted a kiss there too. A second groan escaped Sherlock's vocal control, and John relished the subtle vibrations against his lips. He gently traced his fingertips up under Sherlock's dress shirt and over his side, tugging gently at the repeating protrusions of vertebrae to draw the lanky man closer.  
"I can't imagine this is comfortable," John frowns down at Sherlock's chest, still fully dressed in his daily attire. "Haven't you got pajamas?"  
"No, I er..." Sherlock averted his gaze for a moment, instead boring two invisible holes into the wall on the other side of John's bed. "I was more concerned with keeping YOU comfortable." He again turned to look down at John, whose lips were quirked in mirth.  
Sherlock was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of self-consciousness as John undid his buttons for him and gently pushed his shirt and jacket up over his shoulders (Sherlock reluctantly cooperated to get it out from under himself) to drop it on the floor near the bed.  
"I'm more comfortable when you are," John murmured into Sherlock's neck, returning his arms to their grip around the too-thin waist.  
Sherlock panted gently against John's cheek as he averted his gaze from the older man's arousal (hidden but still apparent beneath John's shorts), standing at attention against Sherlock's stomach after a night spent in close proximity. Its warm, insistent presence, recalling John's desire to share himself with the pale, long-legged man in his bed, roused something in said desired detective.  
"John, I think you should know that while I'm flattered by your interest," Sherlock murmured in that rare, deep morning voice into the doctor's ear, "I may need a demonstration on your part of er... what exactly to do about it."  
John's teasing smile pressed into Sherlock's jaw as his fingers were happy to oblige.


	87. Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This prompt came from that same person who was compiling the fan-art book.

Greg stepped out of his doorstep for what would probably be the last time in a long while. A world-heavy sigh made his head hang as a light mist enveloped the city, shrouding him in with it as though he'd always been there, on his stoop, looking as though he had nowhere left in the world to go.

"You're practically married to your work anyway," she'd told him, handing him his case full of suits and nicotine patches and spare badges and toiletries and his grandmother's watch, "You might as well go on and live very happily together. Just don't expect to come crawling back here for any sympathy."

The Detective Inspector had become nearly a permanent fixture in the Yard as of late, always wrapped up in these cases which seemed to escalate in difficulty and intensity and... pure grotesque, poetic horror, really. It had taken a toll on his already-strained relationship with his soon-to-be-ex wife. Tonight had been the final straw, when Greg had brought his work home with him again.

Lestrade caught a cab to the Yard. It wouldn't be the first night he'd slept in his office chair.


	88. Brunch

Sherlock awoke to the sound of his phone, alerting him to a text with the sound of a gunshot. It startled him out of his shallow sleep, and he rolled over to inspect it suspiciously. John must have altered it in the same way that Irene had, only adding his own flair to make it more... alarming.

"Make yourself decent and come downstairs," the text read.

The sliver of light forcing its way between the tightly-drawn blinds sought after Sherlock's eyes, shining bright yellow into them with the light of a sun which had nearly reached its apex. Sherlock sighed and rolled his legs out of bed, reluctantly giving up the notion of gaining any more sleep for the next few days. With a quick fuss with his bedhead, a noncommittal brush of the teeth, a robe and slippers, the tired insomniac trudged his way down to 221A. He was greeted by the scents of freshly-baked scones and something to do with eggs.

"Ah, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson called happily as he poked his head in the door. She was just setting the small coffee table in front of her couch, placing a steaming quiche onto a hot-pad in the corner.

John came out to join them, laden down with juice and coffee. He motioned with his head for Sherlock to sit down. "Drink up," he sang, handing Sherlock a mug to pour coffee into. The detective's eyes looked positively droopy. Perhaps they'd woken him too soon? "You'll need to be awake; we've got a lot to do after brunch."

Sherlock did a quick read of John's attire and rolled his eyes. Hiking boots. How exciting.


	89. Dismissed

"Dr. Watson." John looked up from his hands with a miserable yet somehow still blank expression. His supervisor continued. "You're a talented physician. You know that, and I know that. You've been with us for more than two years! But ever since you've resumed your... Extracurricular activities, your performance and attendance have taken a serious turn for the worse." The chief surgeon leaned across his desk with an expression which could almost be construed as worry, but not quite. "We simply can't keep a salaried doctor on the payroll if he doesn't show up. You understand." John nodded and stood to leave when he was dismissed. He wondered if Sherlock would mind terribly that he no longer had a day job. Now that they were drawing in enough cases to support both halves of the rent, he supposed, probably not.

John imagined that if he were capable, he may have to take on a few of the more boring cases, to pad the income.


	90. Gourmet

John and Sherlock trudged home from the Yard, their shoes still soaking wet and making a mess of Mrs. Hudson's floor. They'd just returned from a case in a large pond on a private property, where the body had been submerged in swamp-like conditions for two days. It wasn't pretty, to say the least. The algae and snails covering it almost made it unrecognizable, and Sherlock hadn't had much to go on, but he'd still managed to provide some helpful insight based on some impressions left in the moss and other vegetation.

John knew what was coming next. After the case with the butterfly scales and the honey, now of course Sherlock would want to study the consumption rates of snails.  
It was going to be a long, smelly week.

Once Sherlock's experimentation was over, the snails promptly disappeared, their mossy aquarium disposed up next to the morning's rubbish. John returned to find this sudden change, accompanied by another- Sherlock in the kitchen, actually cooking. He had several pots going at once, as well as a sautee pan filled with what John guessed were mushroom caps. A strange, salty aroma filled the kitchen, and John tried to peer over Sherlock's shoulder to see what he was up to. A gentle nudge with the scapula sent him back to the sitting room. "I thought I'd try something a little more gourmet tonight," Sherlock called out to him, "Since you're always complaining that I can't cook." John wondered if he'd offended his flat-mate, who was obviously putting quite a bit of effort into this surprise meal.

Finally, Sherlock called John in to where he'd set the kitchen table with proper flatware and everything, even including two flutes of champagne. John sat down as Sherlock placed a plate in front of him. "I tried my hand at escargots, out of curiosity," Sherlock explained the small brown circles stuffed into the mushroom caps, "Let me know what you think." The amateur chef seated himself across from John, looking quite accomplished with a smug little smile. John delicately stabbed one of the quivering morsels, relishing the garlic as it wafted up at him. He took a bite, and immediately looked over at Sherlock, whose face seemed to be matching the utter surprise and horror that John was sure he'd been stuck with.

Sherlock set his fork down with a clatter of finality. "Oh well," he sighed, "At least there's dessert."  
The baked Alaska was delicious.


	91. Recycle

Sherlock is about to tug John away from the Bart's end-of-semester party when John wanders off suddenly. Sherlock follows him with his eyes, where he sees John approach one of the young female grad students, who maybe isn't as young as she ought to be, for a student. Working mother returning to school, by the looks of it. John is chatting her up quite nicely, Their conversation takes a turn, "So what are you doing tomorrow night?"  
Sherlock rolls his eyes and he approaches John from behind. "John, please. You've recycled that line how many times now? No wait, don't guess, this will make the eighth time. And that's just in the three months that I've known you."  
John sighs exasperatedly as his female-of-interest looks up at Sherlock, quite taken aback. "Yes, Sherlock, thank you for your input. Now if you don't mind?"  
Sherlock continues, uninterrupted, "Really, John, you would have so much more success if you tried something original. For instance," Sherlock turns to the grad student, who is by now quite frazzled by the two men, obviously VERY familiar with each other, fighting in her company, "I notice that your current conditioner isn't quite working out for you. Would you like to come try some of mine?" Sherlock flashes a cheeky wink for good measure, and the young mother can't help but blush at his brazenness.

John, seeing this, slumps his shoulders and hustles off, tugging Sherlock along by the sleeve behind him. The young woman gives them both a small wave goodbye.


	92. Belief

John set down his latest novel with a sappy sigh. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him. John smiled and summarized, "He wrote her a poem, and she finally realized that he was right for her after all."  
Sherlock snorted. "That's ridiculous. What would a young woman have to gain from a few stanzas of writing?" He turned to the next chapter of his textbook.  
John stood to put the book back into the pile of library returns. "I dunno, ever since we had that Shakespeare unit back in senior year, It's always been a personal belief that writing poetry is one of the most romantic gestures a person can make." Sherlock didn't look up from his book, but his silence told John that he'd absorbed his words. At least he didn't follow with more ridicule.

The next day when he woke, John found a folded piece of paper hidden between the screen and keyboard of his closed laptop. "My dearest John," it read,

"If I had known that I could have a friend  
More loyal than the royal Queen's brigade,  
I would have made my selfishness an end  
And for a quick delivery have prayed.

Before we met I thought it left to chance  
That I would play the game of life alone  
Abandoned had I all thoughts of romance  
Until we made our partnership our home

But how, my doctor, shall we now progress?  
No longer do I wish to tempt my fate-  
Uncertainty my impulse does oppress,  
What if my own decisions come too late?

If I'm the brain to your unfailing heart,  
Then please, I beg you, tell me where to start."

John wavered a bit in his pajamas, clutching the scrap of paper to his chest. Of course Sherlock would whip out a sonnet overnight. Of course it would be perfect and endearing and romantic and vulnerable. And of course, John could never come close to reciprocating, though he knew with certainty that he must try.

A couple days later, as the boys relaxed after their short-lived case, John brought a tea tray to set between the two armchairs, mugs steaming amicably.  
Sherlock reached for the mug placed nearest to him, only to find that the handle had been stuffed with a small, rolled-up scrap of paper. "Sherlock," it read,

"Nobody could call me objective  
Regarding my favorite detective  
I'll gladly take aim  
To save his good name  
Of his heart I am overly protective"

Sherlock smirked at John and tucked the paper into his breast pocket. "Sorry it's not much," John mumbled sheepishly from behind his tea, "Limericks were always the only kind of poetry I wasn't rubbish at. Guess I'm not as romantic as I'd like to imagine."

Sherlock silently disagreed, sipping at the tea which John had prepared perfectly to his liking.


	93. Petition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to expand upon this possibility ever since this happened!
> 
> http://logs.omegle.com/74f55

John dragged himself out of bed for yet another dull day at the surgery. He limped through his morning routine, having to stop himself again from pouring two cups of tea out of habit. Just as he was leaving, a flyer fell to the ground as he opened the front door. "Come join the cause," it said, "Protect personal gun rights before it's too late!" The pamphlet listed a time and a place, and John mentally consulted his schedule as he hailed a taxi. Ordinarily, he would be concerned with the possibility of being on a case, but not any more. This would be a good opportunity to meet someone new, he told himself, trying to convince the conflicting little instincts in his head which questioned whether he really WANTED to meet anyone new.

The fog had actually lifted by the time John left the clinic, and the sun was making an attempt at warming Trafalgar Square as he approached the large crowd which had gathered there. As he worked himself into the midst, one of the already-involved activists approached him with a clipboard. "Sign the petition to repeal Proposition 17?" she requested, handing him the clipboard of signatures to contribute to. As John was penning in his contact information (for verification of his signature) he happened to glance up at the line above his. "Col. Sebastian Moran," it read. John's head snapped up to search for a familiar face in the crowd.

"Quick!" He shoved the clipboard back into the arms of the activist, "The man who signed before me, can you tell me where he went? Taller than me, should have brown hair?" She shook her head, and John internally cursed at his lack of descriptive features. It had been years since he'd had the opportunity to work with Colonel Moran, he couldn't be certain that the sharpshooter hadn't changed since then. He hadn't even known he'd relocated back to London!  
Then, an idea struck him. "Could I er... have that back? Think I put my old address down." The young woman looked peeved, but handed it back with an annoyed flourish. John pulled out his phone as if to look up a recently-acquired address, but instead copied down the number listed in the slot above. Just as he was finishing, a voice cracked from somewhere very close behind him, "Captain Watson." John jerked around, and surely enough, just as he remembered him (hair grown out though,) was Colonel Moran. "Ah, it was you after all," he grinned, "I thought so. Never forget those ears of yours, doctor. How's civilian life treating you?" He put out a hand to re-familiarize himself with his old acquaintance.  
John shook it eagerly, absentmindedly handing the clipboard back for a second time. "Well, quite well," he beamed at his idol, almost swept up again in the memories of days spent on the military range, learning to aim from the best. "Haven't missed yet, thanks to your teachings. And please, call me John. No sense in formalities without the uniform, yeah?"  
"Indeed, you'll call me Seb as well, I hope." Sebastian truly was chuffed to have this chance to actually catch up with an old army buddy, instead of merely peering down his neck through the sights of his best sniper rifle. "To be honest, John, I was hoping I might find you here. I'd heard you'd made it to London a bit ago, and wondered if I might have a chance to catch up with you. It's been a rough couple of weeks, does my heart good to see an old face."  
John's nostalgic grin fell by a couple inches. "Tell me about it," he grumbled, "Actually this past week was hell on me too." He peered up at the sincere eyes of the one person left in the world who might understand his situation, wondering how honest he could be with him. "Why don't you come down with me to the pub, and we'll er... swap war stories, if you'll pardon the phrase."  
Sebastian chuckled and turned away from the crowd of gun enthusiasts with a sweeping gesture. "Lead the way."


	94. Duration

Sherlock slid down to the mattress with a soft shudder of exhaustion as John slid gently out, fighting the urge to immediately clench back to a normal state of tightness. John had warned him that would hurt, and at this point Sherlock was inclined to take the doctor's word as law. Sherlock turned onto his side to instead focus on the face of his partner, who had rolled off to catch his breath. Sherlock studied the signs (pupils still dilated, cheeks and chest flushed, creases lessened) and smiled. It had been good.

John was not so self-assured, considering Sherlock's front was not as messy as his own, so he reached out and took a hold of the pale, graceful fingers with a gentle squeeze. "How are you feeling?" John nuzzled his head into Sherlock's neck to catch the low vibrations of his reply.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock murmured with a squeeze in return at John's fingers, "You're satisfied now, that's the important part." He curled one long leg around John's hips to draw him in closer.

John gently shook his head, sandy hairs tickling against Sherlock's chin. "I should have been able to last longer," he lamented, either to Sherlock or himself, "It's embarrassing, going straight off like some bloody teenager."

Sherlock closed his eyes, brow furrowed as he released John's hand to stroke reassuringly up his back. "Why should the duration matter? The result is the same regardless, so why delay it?"

John had to chuckle a bit, reminding himself that the object of his affections was unlike any woman he'd ever been with before. New set of rules.


	95. Pattern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's based on Chameleon, if you're familiar with that fic. Which you should be.

John winced on behalf of Sherlock as they approached the crime scene; the smell of rot was ripe throughout the lobby, the voices of several panicked guests echoed around the giant aquarium centerpiece where the body had been dumped, and the walls and carpet were covered in clashing textures which would make even a mute sick. John reached out to steady Sherlock's mind, though the well-controlled Sentinal hardly needed it. He was already focusing in on the relevant details and assessing the situation. John was swept up in his excitement for something new and interestinh, but what exactly it was, John would have to wait and see.  
The guests were beginning to stare at the two-man detective team instead of at the body now, their stress running higher at the sight of the sentinel amongst them. John threw his shields up around himself and Sherlock, willing the mutes to look away.

Surely enough, their gaze began to slide from one gaudy pattern to the other, eventually forgetting what they had been looking at in the first place. The detective and his precious Guide slid into obscurity, leaving them free to gather data without fear of interference.


	96. Pastel

ohn ran his eyes over the stark white planes next to him in bed, smooth and unblemished and oh-so-touchable. Sherlock tried to ignore John's unabashed staring, his eyes buried in his book as he scooted a little further back against the headboard. After another chapter, however, he became agitated at the scrutiny. "John." He peered down at the serene doctor, curled on his side, who met his gaze with a bit of a dopey grin. "You were staring? What's on your mind?"

John rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling as though to shield him a bit from the personal confession, "I was just... Kinda got caught up in... How beautiful you can be sometimes. Sorry." He turned to Sherlock for acceptance, and was surprised to find the younger man blushing at the heartfelt compliment, his cheeks a pastel shade of pink which was quite rare on the angular surface. John continued, as though to take advantage of his mental momentum. "It's just, well, this is still a bit foreign to me, the idea of being around you, all comfortable with your casual nudity. Like I have to soak it all up at once." John sighed and rolled back over to face the mysterious paradox sharing his bed.

Sherlock set his book in his lap for the moment, taking in the concern written all over his friend's face. "Why, what do you mean?"

"Well, I'm not used to things lasting." John averted his gaze to somewhere near Sherlock's navel. "Usually at this point with a date (a woman, Sherlock knew he meant) we'd be cuddling until one of us had to leave. More often than not we wouldn't speak again. But now..." He trailed off and sighed into the pillow. "With you, I'm not sure you even want me touching you."

Sherlock buried his fingers in John's hair. "At times like this, please feel welcome to touch me however you wish."

John smiled and stole Sherlock's nearer leg to curl his arms around.


	97. Staple

Sherlock pulled the sheet back from the cadaver, reaching for a fresh pair of gloves before gingerly lifting a roll of pale, cold fat. "How recent was the surgery?" He murmured softly to Molly, spreading the flesh to inspect the scar, "Looks like about four months, based on the healing pattern?"

Molly nodded, but remembered that Sherlock (probably) wouldn't see her behind him, so added, "Yes, the stomach was stapled in late April, though was poorly maintained."

"Excellent," Sherlock grinned as he made a small incision along the scar, "This is as close of a match to my case as I could hope for. You've been most resourceful."

Molly blushed a bit at the compliment, turning toward her work computer. "You're welcome."


	98. Torch

The heavy winds continued as the boys headed home from the insurance corporate office, making a mad dash from the taxi to the front door, greeted by Mrs. Hudson. She held the door open, hustling them safely indoors as she fussed about the weather and deadbolted the door for a sense of security. "It's just awful," she simpered, handing John and Sherlock each a small AA-powered torch and a large flat-bottomed candle, "There's been a tree branch down by the inn, took out a window and all the power lines with it." She eyed her favorite tenants, Sherlock's hair all a-frizzed and John leaning subtly towards him. "I don't know how much of a shelter this old house is, but it makes me feel better all the same just to know you're both here."

Sherlock smiled and wrapped his long arms around her before hanging up his coat, "I'm sure we'll be fine. Nothing would dare mess with Baker street, not even mother nature herself." The kindly landlady waved them up the stairs, promising to check in on them in the morning.

John was pleased to find that the other utilities were still functional, and went about preparing tea as usual. Sherlock set the candles in the sitting room and kitchen, lighting them for John's benefit as the already-cloud-obscured sun sank behind the skyline. He settled in on the couch to face a blank screen, wondering if John would still join him with no pretense of a distraction.

He was not disappointed.


	99. Pageant

John walked away from the house of the victim's parents in disgust. He was sorry they'd ever taken this case. First, Sherlock had spent three days on end with mutilated human stomachs to find a match for the state in which they'd found their victim's. Now, John had spent entirely too much time in the company of the poor girl's family, who were all shallow, petty, and entirely unpleasant human beings. The sisters were all tall and beautiful and brainless, forced into a life of modeling and pageants by their overbearing mother. John could spot the subtle signs of malnutrition in their nails and skin tone, and he didn't want to spend another second with this family who, if not for the unfortunate murder, may well have driven their overweight outcast of a daughter to attempt suicide.

John couldn't hide his relief upon arriving home, and Sherlock noticed the dreadful weight on his shoulders, the priorly-occupied detective setting down his lab notes to come comfort his shaken partner. "I don't think we should help these people," John sighed softly, "They don't deserve it."

Sherlock wrapped one arm around John's shoulders, the other petting traces into his hair. "Now who's getting picky about cases," he chided playfully, "What's wrong, did they call you fat?"

John only nodded, too buried in his sudden insecurities to add that they had also called him old. Thank goodness Sherlock didn't care about such trivial ideas.


	100. Ratings

Greg poked his head into the glass-walled office of his superior. "You called, Chief?"  
The Chief Superintendent motioned him in with a wave, indicating that he close the door behind himself. "Yes, Lestrade, I wanted to talk to you about your current case."  
Greg sat in the chair adjacent to the Chief's desk. "The search is going quite well, we've still got three leads to investigate. I'm confident we'll get somewhere by the end of tomorrow, if not by Friday."  
The Chief nodded and patted his damp forehead with a handkerchief. "Yes. Well. What I wanted to ask you was really more about... mister Sherlock Holmes." Greg rolled his eyes, preparing for the worst. "You see, ever since Sherlock's name was cleared and he returned from hiding, the public seems to have taken quite a liking to him. Our public approval ratings take a leap with each case on which he appears as a consultant. I've been strongly urged by those above my position to encourage his involvement in as many future cases as would be deemed appropriate. I've even been authorized to offer him a reward for his assistance."  
Greg sat back in his chair, gaping a bit. How quickly the tune of things changed, when money was involved! He even wondered if the elder Holmes brother might not have a hand in this "encouragement." He cleared his throat and straightened his tie, "Yes sir, I believe we could benefit greatly from Sherlock's assistance in our current case, with his help we may even recover the missing device by the end of today."  
Greg left the meeting, feeling as though he was slowly losing his reputation as a competent detective. Sherlock would be insufferable after this.


	101. Trunk 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oneword repeated itself again, so I went back and did a direct sequel.

ohn sighed and stepped out of Sherlock's room, the black lingerie dangling gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. "Sherlock," he deadpanned. The detective made a questioning murmur, not even bothering to look up from his phone. John tried again, coming a few steps closer. "Sherlock," he insisted, a little louder, "Would you mind explaining this?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, still not looking up. "I'll assume you're referring to the female undergarments." He made eye contact with John, darting a glance to the item in question to confirm. "They weren't mine, if that's what you were wondering."

"Oh god no," John frowned as his mind suddenly conjured up an image of Sherlock, scantily-clad in lacy black pants. It was not as unappealing as he had expected, actually falling rather close to the area of Tim Curry in corset and garters. John giggled a bit at the idea of Sherlock as Frank-N-Furter, and wondered if the self-isolated introvert even had any idea what Rocky Horror was.

Shaking his head to clear the imagery, he returned to the question at hand. "Obviously, yeah, they're not yours. I was thinking more along the lines of Irene Adler?" That caught Sherlock's attention, or perhaps he had just finished his business on the phone and had nothing more interesting to look at than John's frazzled face. "And since you're the one who requested I unpack your trunk," John continued, working it out as he went along, "That means you WANTED me to find them." A nod from Sherlock encouraged him to continue, anticipating that John finally be able to draw a conclusion from his observations, but John only stared at him in confusion. "What the hell, Sherlock? Why do you travel with a dead woman's pants?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, "Dead? And here I thought you'd told me she'd been... relocated?"

"Shit." John realized his mistake too late, but then noticed Sherlock's calm expression. Not that he wouldn't have been calm had he just actually learned that Irene were dead, but it would have been a different sort of calm. The sort where he dragged out the violin to do more composing in various minor keys. No, this was far too smug of a calm. He peered in at the mysterious man before him, the pants in his tight grip nearly forgotten. "Sherlock? What did you do?"


	102. Perfume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When originally posted, this was numbered as chapter 100, so I made a big deal about it.

John returned home later than usual that night, still dressed in his work clothes. No, Sherlock noticed with chagrin, not dressed in them so much as RE-dressed in them. His usual professional waistline and necktie knot were looser, and his dress shirt and trousers were crumpled and slightly more lint-y on one side from being left on the floor for a couple hours. Sherlock forced himself to smile up at his flatmate with a "Hello," and patted the couch beside himself after John had had a chance to hang up his jacket, put on some tea, and kick his shoes off.

John sighed happily with his steaming mug as he settled in against Sherlock's side and leaned in for a brief kiss. Sherlock inhaled as his lips met John's, a rich perfume flooding his nasal cavity from somewhere near John's scruff. He tried to place the scent- It wasn't Clara's hibiscus, nor Sarah's jasmine, not even Lily's self-absorbed lily. A second, subtle sniff as he ran his tongue over John's lower lip, and Sherlock had confirmed it. Saltwater rose. This was someone new. He suppressed a sigh and brought one hand up to gently push John apart under the pretense of stroking down his chest.

John hummed happily for a moment before he noticed the hurt that Sherlock was trying to keep out of his eyes, which seemed much darker than they usually did in broad daylight. "Sherlock, what's..." He tried to meet the gaze of his friend, who couldn't help viciously inspecting a wrinkle in the carpet. John sighed. "You know. Of course you know. I'm sorry."

Sherlock shook his head, his face becoming a thin, mocking mask. "No no, perfectly all right. I know a healthy young heterosexual male such as yourself has certain NEEDS." He had already justified John's behavior to himself on countless previous occasions, so why did it seem to hurt more with each time it happened?

John furrowed his brow with a slow nod, "Sherlock, you know I care deeply about you. You're the biggest part of my life. But... yeah, you're right, I do," he crossed his arms, conversationally sliding past Sherlock's label of 'heterosexual' as he addressed the problem at hand, "I can't just neglect what my body wants, like you do." He reached a hand out and placed it warmly on Sherlock's knee to keep the stubborn man from withdrawing further into his own personal shell. Long, thin fingers curled in around his and brought John's hand up from a bony knee to rest against an equally-bony chest.

"I understand," Sherlock sighed, "Really, I do. But... you meet all the rest of your needs right here, at home." He dared to meet John's stare for a split second, a bit afraid of what he was about to offer. "I suppose I just thought... that with time, you would come to a point where you no longer have to leave here at all."

John raised his eyebrows skeptically, "What, you mean bring the women home? I can't imagine you'd..." He cut himself off at Sherlock's enthusiastic, wide-eyed head-shake. "Right. So er... then..." He stared quizzically at Sherlock again, who almost seemed to be pleading as he grasped tightly at John's hand, his thumb stroking softly at the calloused palm. "You don't mean... you?"

A small, hesitant nod made John flush a near-painful shade of crimson.

"But... but..." He stammered wordlessly for a moment before forming his thoughts into words, "You've never taken me up on that offer to even share my bed, why should you want anything more? Aren't you... um..."

Sherlock tilted his head, quite enjoying the sight of a flustered army doctor, "Asexual? Yes, that's probably correct, in that I don't crave sex the way that you do." He could tell that John was about to jump to conclusions, and squeezed at his hand again to prevent it, "However, that doesn't mean that I wouldn't be willing to go to some considerable lengths to satiate the one person in the world that I l-" He cut himself off as he realized where his outburst of admission was about to take him, his pale face trying its best to catch up to John's in hue. "That I care very much for," he mumbled, looking away.

John smiled and leaned in to press a kiss against Sherlock's burning cheek. "I don't want to do anything you're uncomfortable with," he murmured, a small flutter of hope churning in his stomach, "But why don't you start by taking me up on my first offer?" He rose from the couch and made for the stairs, gently tugging Sherlock by the arm.

Certain that he was about to lose every shred of dignity, Sherlock complied and let himself be led along to John's personal sanctum. He hoped he wouldn't prove to be too much of an intrusion.


	103. Residue

Sherlock burst out of his room, fully clad in scarf and coat, and had even included a set of earmuffs stuffed down over his curls (called for, as the temperatures had taken a steep drop the past two days). "Get dressed at once, John," he thrummed happily, "I'm ravenous and we're going out."   
John looked up from his computer in surprise, and did his best to hurry and bundle up. Any opportunity to see to it that Sherlock was fed was an opportunity the well-meaning doctor leaped at. He rushed down from his room, properly ensconced in two jumpers, a down coat, and a chullo, and grinned at Sherlock, following him eagerly down to street level. The taller man hailed them a taxi, and they were on their way, backs bared against the stinging wind.   
"So where are we going?" John withdrew his cold hands from his pockets and rubbed them together, wishing he'd brought gloves. The taxi's heater didn't seem too functional.   
"China town," Sherlock replied after giving the cabbie an address. "I've been meaning to pay a visit for ages."  
John considered this, already salivating at the thought of that greasy sweet-and-sour chicken he always got. "That reminds me," he said after a bit, "You never did tell me; how DO you tell a good Chinese restaurant by the bottom third of its door handle?"   
"Easy," Sherlock smirked over at him, "Check the handle for a greasy residue. If it has one, it is a mediocre establishment. The guests eat there quite a lot, and always take home leftovers in their paper bags, leaving behind evidence as they depart." John nodded, following along. "If there is no residue, however," Sherlock drawled with a sly grin, "It is either a very poor choice, or a very good one."   
John squinted, wrapping his head around the possibilities. "Poor because nobody eats there, so it doesn't build up that film, right. I get that. But very good?"  
Sherlock licked his lips in anticipation as they exited the taxi. "Because the food is so good that there are no leftovers for them to take home." John nodded as they approached a very authentic-looking restaurant, and he paused to inspect the handle, and found that it was clean. "I'm guessing this is one of those, then?"   
Sherlock rolled his eyes and ushered the doctor in before him. It was fortunate he had been able to distract his friend on the way, or else John might have put two and two together and realized that Sherlock had just taken him out to dinner on Valentine's Day.


	104. Exquisite

Mycroft stood from John's armchair as he prepared himself to leave, confident that he had Sherlock's assistance. As a final gratuity for cooperation, he reached into his coat pocket and slid out a glossy piece of paper, holding a gentle crease down its middle as he handed it out to his younger brother.   
"It's a voucher for two," he explained, "It covers three courses plus drinks, but expires before I'll have an opening to use it." He smiled grimly as Sherlock gingerly plucked it from his grasp. "Now that you and John are running on nearly the same schedule, I'm sure you'll find time to make a visit."   
Sherlock examined the voucher, unfamiliar with the address. "What sort of cuisine," he sighed, tired of Mycroft's bribery.   
"Oh, the finest, a wonderful selection of French and German. We enjoyed it immensely, and the dessert choices were exquisite." Mycroft almost seemed to relax his guard, lost in the fond memory of a perfectly-moist black forest cake.   
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "We?" He smirked, "Don't tell me you've taken to using the royal we, who were you with?"   
Mycroft turned with a near-imperceptible flush and started down the stairs. "The company I keep no longer concerns you," he lied. Sherlock didn't need to know that Greg had enjoyed the cake as well.


	105. Temper

Sherlock strode through the scene of the crime, stepping gingerly over the corpse to instead inspect the storefront. He tuned out Anderson, who was again failing horribly at drawing a sound conclusion. He gathered his coat tails in the crook of each elbow, stooping carefully to inspect the tempered shards which had landed inside, on the linoleum floor. Careful not to disturb the pattern which they had formed when broken, he compared the scene to that of outside. It was certain, the window had been broken from the inside.  
"So obviously, the murderer broke in for the valuables, and the clerk must have taken him by surprise," Anderson preened at his fingernails and ignored the seething look that Sherlock was shooting him, too proud of his own deduction to be bothered. "This was probably an accident, I'd be surprised if the burglar hasn't dumped the goods of his raid somewhere out of fear by now."   
Finally, Sherlock could take no more of Anderson's blathering, and lost his temper at the blind forensics specialist. Lestrade only sighed and hung his head, glad that extensive imagery of the scene had been captured before the two idiots in his care disturbed it all with a fistfight.


	106. Drifting

John turned fitfully in his sleep, drifting from nightmare to wakefulness to bizarre dreams to NREM and back. He was vaguely, unconsciously aware that he was not alone, that a gentle weight rested around his waist which lifted to allow freedom of movement each time he stirred. It always wrapped back around him, though, and gripped a little tighter when John's limbs struck out in fear.   
Finally, the nightmares faded and didn't return. John settled in comfortably, nestling in against the warm body with a thankful squeeze around the waist. It was thinner than his arm was accustomed to holding at night, but that thought didn't register as important until he became more conscious. As he woke, the sunbeam graciously blocked by an angular shoulder, John was momentarily disoriented. His mind had formed a connection between sleeping with company and awakening in a strange room, so the sight of his own familiar surroundings threw him through a loop. As did the chest pressed against his own, soft enough but not laden with extra padding. John's gaze followed the sternum up to a multitude of chins, as Sherlock peered down at him with a bemused expression.   
"Your alarm didn't go off, so I let you sleep," he murmured gently, leaning in to press his nose and lips into John's hair.  
John suddenly remembered the events of the previous day and gave a nervous chuckle. "Yeah, er... My alarm won't be going off anymore for a while." He curled his arm a little tighter around Sherlock's waist, relishing the warmth. "I got fired yesterday. I went to a pub to cope for a bit, met a nice woman, then came home to you. Forgot all about it when this" He gestured to Sherlock's bare skin, "happened."   
Sherlock grinned, "Excellent, now you'll be able to assist me with no other obligations."   
John only ducked his face into Sherlock's neck with a giggle. "You are the greediest man I've ever met."


	107. Catcher

Sherlock handed John his case to take up to the room as he checked in with the Bed and Breakfast's keeper, handing him a cheque for the deposit for the two nights. He was just about to turn heel and fetch John, when the sprightly little man chirped up as he filed the cheque into the till. "Say, ol' boy, if you don't mind my askin'..." He leaned in over the counter with a knowing look, "You and the shorter fellow up there, you two a-uh... A sure thing?"   
Sherlock squinted slightly, giving the man another visual run-down. "No, we're not sure of anything just yet, of course. That's why we're here, gathering evidence." He could tell his answer was unsatisfactory, but didn't have the patience to sort out the nuances of this unrelated conversation. The man only shrugged him off and let him be. Sherlock ran back to the room to fetch John, and soon the two were off to interview suspects at the country club.   
Upon their return, Sherlock stormed back to the room to process the new information in silence. John stayed to order a pint from the keeper, who added it to his tab for the stay. He handed John the beverage and tried again, leaning over the bar with a little squint. Not like there was anything better to do at the moment. If subtle hadn't worked on the taller one, maybe he'd have to be a bit more blunt. "So... John was it?" John nodded, nose buried in the glass. "If ye don't mind me askin'," He glanced between John and the general direction of the room Sherlock was occupying, implying a connection, "Which one o' you's the catcher?" He winked cheekily at John, who had to fight the foam from spouting out his nose. John hacked and coughed for a moment, and the old keeper reached over the bar to gently slap him on the back.   
John sat back on the lone barstool as he recovered his breath, face bright red. He raised his eyebrows at the kindly old man, who seemed friendly enough and genuinely invested in the lives and happiness of his customers. And it wasn't like they'd ever meet again, John figured, so what was the harm in having a bit of fun? He grinned and rushed in with brutal honesty, mildly wondering just how much the old man could take with a straight face. "Usually HE is," John informed him, with a nod back towards the room. "But sometimes it's me. You know, those sorts of nights where you just NEED it inside you, yeah?" He winked back at the old bloke, who nodded grimly with a gulp and a blush.   
John finished his pint and headed back to join Sherlock, just barely catching the inkeeper's advice about not ruining the sheets.


	108. Capture

John shifted on the cold stone chair, keeping his rear end from going numb. It was perfectly pleasant out, a light breeze blowing through Sherlock's curls as John eyed the board. He rested his chin in his fingertips in a subconscious imitation of Sherlock's thinking pose.  
They had gone for a walk, as there was nothing more pressing that needed to be done, and the rare opportunity of perfect weather had tempted John to finally leave the house after the last few days, where he and Sherlock had hardly done anything work-related at all. They needed a case, and badly. In the meantime, though, John had dragged Sherlock out into the sun to see if the pale shut-in might be able to absorb some ultraviolet light. They'd meandered slowly through the park until coming to a small paved area near a fountain. Several benches and tables littered the area, some occupied by more elderly couples, silently enjoying the weather as they passed the time with chess.   
John, already knowing he would lose, invited Sherlock to a game. The detective huffed a small laugh and conceded, settling down naturally behind the small black pieces carved from a heavy stone. John slid in behind the white, and had to find a small rock to replace one of his missing pawns. Finally, after a long and brutal battle (John was trying his very best, much to Sherlock's amusement), John found himself pinned between two choices. He could advance this pawn (the rock, no less), one of only two remaining, and promote it to a queen. Or he could use his knight to capture Sherlock's queen.   
After much deliberation, he chose the latter. A smug smirk no longer even crossed his face, as he had become far too accustomed to Sherlock's immediate retaliations. Sherlock made a swift move with his rook and took John's knight, probably having had this all planned out five steps in advance.   
"Check mate," he purred with a grin, "But a valiant effort on your part, John, really. Well done." John had to keep himself from grinning at the complement. Scooting out from behind the table, he stood and stretched as Sherlock politely reset the board for the next visitors. John reached out when the chore was finished, and grasped the slender fingers in a warm squeeze, leading the man of massive, superior intellect back home.


	109. Splash

John knelt by the side of the bathtub, leaning his weight against it with a little shudder as he stopped up the bottom and turned the hot water on full. Their last case had been a dark one, full of human trafficking and worse drug use than he'd even seen in the army. Sherlock, of course, had taken it all in stride and blended right in. It had nearly scared John how easily Sherlock slid into the persona of a junkie, to collect information and samples from those involved.   
The whole thing had ended with a climactic shoot-out and yet another chase through London, pinning down the heads of the operation. Lestrade was ecstatic once the whole thing was over, and Sherlock was reluctantly exposed to yet further media attention as the city went into uproar over the crimes going on under their very noses. Just, thank god it was over, John kept repeating to himself, leaning his head back against the side of the toilet bowl. Thank god it was over, and they could go back to their ... not normal, but safe lives at least.  
Finally, the tub filled and John eased his way into the scalding water inch by inch, letting his skin acclimate to it as the vapors seemed to carry away the filth and horror John had accumulated over the past few days. He wasn't sure he wanted to write this one into his blog. He wasn't even sure who would want to read it. John leaned back against the wall of the tub and let himself sink down until the water reached his chin, sighing softly as the warmth seeped into his old war wound. He had no idea how long he'd been there before there was a knock at the door. "John?"   
John kept his eyes closed, staying in the little mental sanctuary he'd steamed out for himself. "What, Sherlock."   
A pause, as though his friend wasn't sure whether he was wanted. "You've never done an actual bath before. I wondered if it indicated your distress."  
John let a small smile creep onto his face. Sherlock was actually worried about him. Maybe he had noticed John's discomfort after all? "I'm fine now, Sherlock, it's over." He waited for a minute, but didn't hear Sherlock's footsteps leaving. "Was there something else?"   
The door opened a crack, and Sherlock stuck his nose in. "I was idly wondering if there might be room for me to join you." John could nearly hear a whimper in his voice, and wondered if maybe he wasn't the only one who had been shaken by the gruesome nature of their last case. He mentally scolded himself for nearly forgetting that Sherlock wasn't actually the sociopath that he would have everyone believe he was. "Yeah," John sighed softly, "Come on in."  
The lanky man pushed the door just a little wider and slid his way in, already naked. John chuckled at the eagerness and scooted forward a little to make room. Sherlock carefully laid his hand on John's shoulder for support as he reached a leg in around John's other side, sliding into the tub behind the tired doctor. The water had cooled enough for him to sink right in, and his added volume displaced enough to send a bit of it splashing over the side. John resigned himself to cleaning that up later, but for now he was more interested in the renewed warmth against his back. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and pulled the doctor back against his chest with a reaffirming squeeze.  
They sat and relaxed together for awhile before Sherlock spoke again. "I'm sorry you had to see all that, John. Next time I'll take care of it myself."   
John kicked gently at Sherlock's shin. "Like hell you will."


	110. Rainy- Mystrade

Mycroft stepped out of the car and headed in to the meeting he'd been looking forward to all week long, giving a little whistle as he twirled his umbrella in one hand. Only when he was alone, or sometimes with Anthea, did he ever let loose and show a bit of the emotions brewing under the thick layer of ice he held as his well-known facade. Those who were closest to him could sometimes read below it, if they were observant enough to pay mind to his umbrella. The grip he had on it could occasionally belie his state of being; a tight grip at the crook of the curve was worry or impatience, a loose trail along the handle with the fingertips was relaxation or accomplishment.  
Mycroft had taken to carrying an umbrella with him when he was a small boy, dressed in the smart spats that Mummy had tucked him into. He'd been ever so eager to keep her pleased, and the umbrella was an easy precaution to keep his clothes (and appearance) prim and proper. Not every day in England may have been rainy, but enough were that an umbrella was a prudent accessory on any occasion. Before long it had become a habit for the prospective young councilman, and soon his habit became a part of his identity.  
The crook-handled appendage rested patiently by the door of his not-so-humble abode, and a backup kept itself company with the briefcases in the trunk of his most-used limousine. It rarely saw use, but today Mycroft retrieved it. He waited patiently in the middle of Trafalgar Square, one umbrella extended above himself, the other still twirling around one wrist. Finally, a black towncar pulled up at the edge of the square and admitted one silver-haired detective, who quickly made his way to the tall man in the flawless suit, who graciously handed him the extra umbrella to keep his work suit dry for the duration of their meeting.


	111. Charms- Sherlock/Molly

Sherlock burst into the lab at Bart's, his coat flaring out behind him in the rush of air from the doors. He quickly zeroed in on Molly, who was just tagging and bagging her last corpse of the day. "Molly," he called from across the room, striding closer as John struggled to keep up, "I need access to the storage from last Tuesday, immediately."  
Molly shook her head as John paused to right a stool which Sherlock had knocked over in his pursuit of the small, mousy assistant. "Not happening, Sherlock. You know I can't grab cold cases on short notice." She packed up her work bag and shrugged into her coat, preparing to leave for the day.   
Sherlock stood in her path, blocking her escape to the large double-doors. He loomed over her, casting a shadow over her face as he leaned in a little closer with an audible inhale. "Is that a new scent you're wearing? Evergreen, yes? I like it."  
Molly bit her lip, furrowing her brow as she glanced up to meet his impossibly-pale eyes. She steeled herself for his ire, but stood her ground. "Your charms won't work on me anymore, Sherlock. It's time for me to go home, and you'll just have to fill out a retrieval form. We can have your specimen ready for you by the day after tomorrow." She made to step around him, and started heading for the doors.  
A soft sigh from the determined detective made her stop in her tracks, and it was fortunate that she didn't catch John rolling his eyes. "Such a shame," Sherlock mumbled, turning to face Molly's retreating back, "And here I thought..."  
"Thought what," Molly dared not turn to look at him again, knowing her own vital signs would betray her.  
Sherlock stood between Molly and John, linking elbows with them both. "I thought you were one of us. You know, part of the team." He glanced affectionately at both of them, before his gaze hardened slightly when he looked back to Molly. "But it seems I was mistaken. You're just another cog in the system, caring more about protocol than about saving a life, or solving a puzzle." He let loose her arm and headed towards the door before her. "I won't bother you again."  
Molly stammered for a moment, and Sherlock turned towards her, just barely containing his sly grin. "I er... that is..." Molly reached into her coat pocket, withdrawing a thick keyring, and jingled it once in the air, "I could probably get you in to the storage rooms for a quick peek."  
Sherlock let his grin loose and clapped Molly on the shoulders, giving her a quick peck to the cheek. "Excellent! I knew you had it in you!"  
Sherlock chuckled softly to himself and led John by the waist to follow Molly. He still had it.


	112. Blaze

Sherlock and John spent the day at the country club, interviewing the various members who had come to visit that day. They idled their time on the golf course and by the pool, getting a general feel for the internal politics of the place and for the position that their victim, Ned Lastworth, had held among his associates.   
Finally, their appointment rolled around, and they headed out to the designated pasture to rendezvous with the club owner. John leaned against the solid white fence while Sherlock paced impatiently before him, engrossed in something on his phone. After a minute, a rider approached the two of them in full dressage gear, slowing from a canter to stop a few feet away. She dismounted and led her horse closer by the bridle, and he nosed gently in the direction of John, largely ignoring Sherlock.   
John let Sherlock conduct his interview with the owner as he carefully stepped forward to meet the horse. He was a huge beast, tall and wiry and a dark iridescent black. He was adorned with three white stockings and a blaze, upon which John slowly rested his palm. The horse nudged gently into the touch with a soft nicker, lowering his head enough that John could scratch between his ears. John did so with a smile, marveling at how fine the forelock seemed to be between his fingers. After a bit, the horse jerked his head away and snuffled at John's hair. The veteran held still as the great nostrils huffed a hot, oat-scented air past his forehead.   
"Winston likes you," the owner called over to him with a smile, and John looked up at her. She reached into her pocket and handed John a sugar lump with a nod at Winston. John chuckled and palmed it into the horse's eager lips, sneaking a glance at Sherlock. The detective was staring at John now, having already gleaned the desired information from the club's owner.   
Taking the hint, John gingerly wiped the slobber from his hand on his jeans, and gave Winston one last pat goodbye before they took their leave. "I've never ridden a horse before," John told Sherlock softly as they made their way back to the rental car, "But Winston seemed nice enough. Maybe I should give it a try some day."   
Sherlock shook his head. "Not here, you shouldn't. 'Winston' is actually Rallentando, a prize-winning hurdler who disappeared from the competition six weeks ago. I think Ms. LeClaire killed Ned for his horse."   
John winced at the bad news. It was always the nice ones.


	113. Attendant- Mycroft/Anthea

Mycroft settled into his first-class chair with a fine red port and a small blanket. There was a long flight ahead, so he resigned to make himself comfortable. The trip to Australia had been a successful one, and he knew that their relations with Parliament would be extremely favorable for years to come, thanks to his influence. He settled back with a satisfied little smirk and sipped his wine, contemplating whether to order anything from food service. Perhaps a salad after the halfway point.  
Mycroft awoke somewhere over India. The sun was hidden from view, and the plane had been darkened for the middle six hours. As he stirred and sat up, Mycroft spied the first-class attendant, cozied into a small designated cubby-hole. She had her overhead light on, with a large book propped on her knees. Her long, auburn hair obscured her face as she read, but she quickly looked up when Mycroft gently cleared his throat.  
Setting her book aside, she stood and carefully stepped between the other sleeping passengers. With their eyemasks and earplugs, it was probably a moot point, but it was obvious she had been trained in British courtesy to a fault. She approached Mycroft, and leaned in to speak softly to him, "Was there something I could help you with, sir? Another blanket?"  
Mycroft quickly considered the question and found that no, his temperature was perfectly adequate. "Actually, my dear, I was wondering... when dinner would be served?"  
The young woman sighed softly. "I didn't want to wake you, but I'm afraid you've missed it." At Mycroft's frown, she quickly added, "I can always bring you something cold out of the fridge, however. Shall I bring you a menu?"  
He nodded, and she whisked her way up to the front of the cabin, a brisk but still silent pace. She returned with a tri-fold, and placed it on Mycroft's tray table. She was about to turn back to her nook in the wall, but Mycroft caught her arm. "There was actually one more thing," Tugging her a bit closer, Mycroft spoke softly and curtly, "I'm opening a position as my personal attendant. My duties in the government have been compiling exponentially, you see, and it's simply too much of a bother for me to keep track of and see to them all. I notice you're not happy with your current position, and wondered if you might be interested?"  
The young brunette narrowed her eyes at the tall, self-proclaimed government official. He seemed well-groomed enough, but that could be said of any of her regular first-class passengers. "How could you tell I'm not satisfied here?"  
Mycroft chuckled. "Only someone yearning for something more would use their spare time to read The Bramble Bush. I'm offering you a chance to see things other than airports and clouds, and to put your adaptive personality to good use. Don't feel obligated to answer immediately, of course. Think on it."  
Mycroft procured his business card, and the attendant slipped it into the pocket in the lining of her flight jacket. "I'll consider it," she answered, with slight hesitation. "Thanks."  
Mycroft folded his menu and handed it back to her. "And I'll have a slice of the chocolate cake, thank you."  
She left when dismissed, and Mycroft smiled fondly after her. He was glad to have finally found someone who fit the bill, she would do quite nicely.


	114. Flip

Lestrade put down the phone with a tight expression. He rose from his desk with a bit of a sigh and headed into the main office space. Two officers were there on duty, the rest already deployed elsewhere. Anderson and Donovan looked up at him with expectant glances. "Yeah," he said, "I just got off the phone with Sherlock, he says he'll do it. I'll need one of you to come along and assist."   
The two exchanged looks, and both denied the opportunity at once. "You go," Donovan shot at Anderson from across her desk, "You can handle the freak, stand up to him."  
"YOU go," Anderson sneered, "He doesn't wish your head would spontaneously combust."   
"Look, it doesn't MATTER which of you goes," Lestrade waved them down before they got any louder, "I just need someone to keep track of details and things Sherlock tells us to look for. I'll take care of... handling him." Still neither of Lestrade's officers jumped to volunteer, so he reached into his trousers and found a loose quid. "Here, we'll flip a coin for it. Heads, I take Donovan, tails, I take Anderson. Yeah?"  
With a curt nod, the two grumps reluctantly agreed. The silver piece glinted in the light, matching yet another hair of the Detective Inspector's which had recently joined the progressive movement against holding its color. He let the coin fall on the central table, where it rolled off a couple manilla envelopes before coming to rest. The three of them peered at it curiously before Lestrade snatched it back up.   
Sally sighed and steeled herself for the berating that was sure to come from the consulting arsehole.


	115. Hood- Retirement Johnlock

They're in Burma, chasing down the last mob boss when it happens. Sherlock has done his best to fabricate a quick mental map of the capital city, just from referencing the atlases and tour brochures. It's nowhere near as complete and intimate as the one he has of London, but it'll do in a pinch. He already knows the location of the warehouse that the criminal syndicate is based in, and has a hunch that the boss is headed there. He makes a guess at the roads and takes what he hopes is a shortcut, dragging John along by the cuff. John tries his best to keep up, short legs and advancing age not helping anything.  
They reach a clear intersection and Sherlock bolts across, knowing John will follow. John can only watch in horror as Sherlock, too wrapped up in the scent of the chase to notice anything else, goes rolling across the hood of a rusty old car. The tires screech as it streams away into the night, leaving Sherlock in a crumpled mess in the middle of the intersection.  
John runs to his side, shouting and trying to keep the tears from clouding his vision. "Sherlock!" he yells, getting a bad case of deja-vu from that fateful day fifteen years ago. There is less blood this time, and Sherlock's head seems to be intact, but his left arm and leg look bad. Very bad.  
John pulls out his phone, his first instinct to dial 999, when he realizes it won't work in Burma. "Shit," he curses, trying to keep Sherlock conscious.  
A little frown has worked its way onto Sherlock's face as the pain seeps in, but he tries to ignore it, instead trying to recall his list of emergency numbers. "Four two double-O nine six," he gasps at John, clenching onto John's sleeve with his right hand.  
John frantically dials the number, wondering how anyone could remember that in an emergency. He spends a good minute on the line, screaming for anyone who can speak English as Sherlock fades in and out of awareness. Finally, they dispatch an ambulance to assist, and John drops the phone to attend to Sherlock. He doesn't seem to have much strength left, and John wonders if he might be bleeding internally.  
"John," a weak mumble makes its way to the panicked doctor's ear, "If I make it out of this, I..." He pauses to wince for a moment, trying to catch his breath, "I think it may be time to consider retirement."


	116. Willful- Johnlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter uses the word "rape" in a discussion.

John clung tightly around Sherlock's waist as he inspected the damage he'd done. Shallow scratches ran along the bony spine and ribs. Sherlock's perfect white neck was marred by a red blotch where it met the shoulder, which would turn purple by the next day. And to be quite frank... the poor detective's arse was a mess.  
John scrambled out of bed and ran down to the bathroom to grab his first-aid kit, and on second thought, an ice pack and washcloths. He returned with them to his bed, where Sherlock had curled onto his side and had wrapped his arms around a pillow in John's absence. The doctor let loose his nurturing instincts, doing the best he could to repair the damage he'd done in his heat. He would have to be sure to reign it back in next time, if there even WAS a next time after what he's just done.  
Sherlock seemed somewhat appreciative, though of the care or the attention John wasn't sure. Lord, did that man crave attention.  
Finally, John wrapped the ice pack and placed it under Sherlock's bum and coaxingly rolled him over onto it, snuggling in close to secure him in place. The detective rolled his eyes as John treated him like some fragile thing, forgetting that he had already endured far worse pains, and none so willful. He let his gaze rest on John's head, and leaned in to smooch at the sandy hairs with a wordless, affectionate murmur.  
John squeezed gently around Sherlock's waist, drawing in a slightly shaky breath as his eyes tried not to focus on the bruise coagulating around Sherlock's tendons. "Sherlock," he croaked gently, "You would..." he paused and tried to reword his thoughts, fingers trailing over the smooth skin of his partner's chest in the interim. "It's just... Well, sometimes I get so wrapped up in things, you know? Afterward I wonder if I didn't overdo it. If I've gone too far, done something akin to... well... rape, for lack of a better word." He winced at the negative term, already knowing it wasn't quite right, but unsure how else sex might apply to a self-proclaimed asexual.  
Sherlock snorted, "Rape? Please, John, you give yourself too much credit. Or not enough, depending on how you look at it." As the doctor lifted his gaze to peer up at Sherlock in confusion, wondering how his eyes had managed to turn a bit green, the taller man stretched out a bit and winced only slightly as the ice pack shifted against his sore gluteus.  
"Think of it this way," he murmured into John's hair, wrapping his slender fingers around the outline of the bullet scar, "I know how to take care of myself. You couldn't rape me if you tried." John lifted an eyebrow at him, but let him continue. "And furthermore, you..." This time the eloquent detective was at a loss for phrasing, as he had never before used this one, "You are the love of my life. I do this, willingly and not without some form of pleasure, because of that fact. Were it anyone else, I believe your train of thought may apply. Were it anyone else but you."  
John's cheeks flushed at the admission, and he buried his nose back into Sherlock's neck, gently planting a kiss against the bite-mark. "Still," he insisted, "You WOULD tell me if you didn't want to continue, right?"  
Sherlock chuckled. "Always."


	117. Ruby

Sherlock had been called back to the country club the following day, and with good reason. Another one of their members had turned up dead, this time deposited right into their pool. Sherlock swept upon the scene and John wrinkled his nose at the heavy stench of blood mixing with chlorine. There floated the dead woman, Roseanne Nulvers, the members informed John. She'd been there when they'd arrived at tea time. None of her possessions were missing, according to her grief-stricken husband. Mr. Nulvers sat at one of the poolside tables, one hand covering his great grey moustache as the other dabbed at his eye with a handkerchief. Sherlock left John to do the interrogating, as he leaned over the side of the pool to see what he could glean from the body. He hoped the police would arrive soon, so they could seal and record the crime scene and allow him to touch it.   
"Sir, I need to know," John pressed gently at the widower, "Did your wife have any connection at all to Mr. Lastworth? Any common links that wouldn't necessarily be present with anyone else here?" The older gentleman shook his head, and John sighed and tried to think of what else to ask.   
Sherlock, meanwhile, had made very little headway. It was likely most of the evidence had been destroyed by the chlorinated water, but one thing he could still make out on the finger closest to him... "Mr. Nulvers," he turned towards the table where the two shorter men sat, "I notice your wife is wearing a ruby ring." He ignored the anecdote the old man was about to share of its origin, continuing on instantly, "It has a scratch in it. Was that always there?"  
"A scratch? Er, no... Not that I recall. We would have had it replaced!" He tugs thoughtfully at his beard, already forgetting the anecdote and the rudeness alike.   
Sherlock makes a note of this, explaining to John while he has his attention, "Corundum has a hardness rating of 9, John, which means that very few things can make a scratch in it like that. The most common of which is a diamond. So either your wife's ring is a fake, or she was in a tussle with someone wearing diamonds."   
Sherlock glanced around at his present company, the finely-clad patrons of the club who were mostly decked out in their jewels and other signs of wealth. "It won't rule out many of you," he muttered softly under his breath, "But there may still be residue if we can catch it in time." Best not to let on to any suspicions, for fear of alerting the murderer. Something suspicious was definitely going on at this club, and Sherlock would be damned if he couldn't get to the bottom of it.


	118. Branches

John could hardly remember the series of events which had brought him to the firm, posh couch in Mycroft's sitting room. He, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock were to stay in his brother's custody for the next two nights while their flat was fumigated for malaria-infested mosquitoes. Thank goodness the miniature plague had been contained from spreading into the streets of London, but it would be quite a hassle to make sure 221 Baker St. was safely habitable again.  
In the meantime, Mycroft's two guestrooms and plentiful accommodations had been more than adequate to put the three guests up for a short time. Mrs. Hudson couldn't help herself from poking around with the servants, helping them in the kitchen, while John spent some time searching through heirlooms and other family possessions which Mycroft had inherited from their mother.  
The curious doctor now found himself perched on the unfamiliar couch, with a wide leather-bound book propped across his lap. Every other page was adorned with old photos of Holmes family members, each seemingly more ancient than the last. A gentle breath on his nape alerted John to Sherlock's presence. He turned another page, to the center of the book, and was fascinated to find a giant family tree.   
"Wow," he mumbled for Sherlock's benefit, "I had no idea you came from such a large family, you never mention anyone but Mycroft." He traced a trail from Sherlock with his finger, leading it upwards through several generations. "Is that... THE Winston Churchill?"   
He turned slightly to glean Sherlock's expression. The detective seemed utterly bored, and perhaps even a little disturbed. "It doesn't matter," he insisted, hoping that John wouldn't notice anything else about his lineage. He reached for the book and snatched it from John's lap, stretching to push it gingerly onto a shelf which John couldn't easily reach.   
John stared after him wistfully. "You know, some folks might consider you lucky, having so many cousins and grandparents and what-not-removed. My family tree's got nowhere near so many branches." Sherlock turned to face him again, approaching to join him on the squat little couch. John sighed. "It was always just me and Harry and our folks. Didn't make for very exciting holidays." A slender hand worked its way into his grasp, and he gave it a little squeeze.   
"Come on," Sherlock murmured gently, eager to change the subject, "Shall we go see what Mrs. Hudson has the help working on for dinner?" He tugged the little doctor away from the shelf and down to the kitchens, hoping he wouldn't think to ask Mycroft about it.


	119. Heartache- Post Reichenbach

Life without Sherlock was much like life BEFORE Sherlock. Or at least, John had to keep telling himself that. If he really stopped to analyze the differences, he invariably found himself curled uncomfortably into his armchair, trying not to sob loudly enough to warrant a trip up the stairs from Mrs. Hudson. It wasn't that her visits didn't help, so much as he didn't want to exacerbate her hip.  
But yes, a hot cup of tea, a slow rub of the back, and a fond anecdote or two were usually enough to distract John from the detective-shaped hole presiding in the other armchair. As Mrs. Hudson was leaving after one such occasion, John blinked away his last tear and thanked her again for her company.  
"Don't mention it, dear, I know what it's like to deal with heartache. You should have seen me after I found out my husband wasn't the man I thought he was." With a smile and a blown good-night kiss, the kindly little landlady carefully worked her way down the stairs, leaving John to stare pointedly out the window, instead of at the other chair. 

Life without John was like nothing Sherlock had ever experienced before. Each week found him in a new location, donning a new identity, hunting a new target. He could barely recognize himself in a mirror anymore, and his surroundings were entirely unfamiliar. Japan was kinder to him than most places; Bangkok was harsher than most. Sherlock missed the life of luxury he'd grown up accustomed to. He missed the cases which kept his mind occupied. He missed the smell and the sight and the feel of London. And most of all, he missed not being alone.  
"Brilliant," he mumbled softly to himself, filling in both the roles of himself and John as he zeroed in on his next quarry.  
"Not at all," the other half of his mind pardoned, following along silently with the rest of the thought process. Occasionally he was forced to stay in one location long enough to build up a report with the locals. Never long enough to make a new friend.


	120. Pins 1- Johnlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't make up my mind today, so for the 150th prompt I've ever filled out (that's counting across all fandoms), here's three fills for one prompt.

John cracks an eye open and stifles a yawn through his nose, getting a lungful of Sherlock's sweet, familiar scent. The stubborn detective has managed to pilfer John s right arm in the middle of the night, and has trapped it under his chest, hugging it firmly to himself. John lets his nose rest in the dark curls for a moment more before gently nudging at Sherlock s shoulder with his free arm. A deep-voiced moan of disapproval makes itself heard from somewhere near John's shoulder, and the grip on his arm becomes fractionally tighter. Though at this point, John wouldn't notice anyway, as he has lost all feeling in the appendage sometime in the last three hours. Another firm nudge at the bony shoulder, and Sherlock gently digs his fingernails into John's arm before reluctantly rolling back onto his side, freeing John's arm in the process.

John curls the stiff limb up into the air and in every which direction, shuddering a bit as the pins and needles of circulation trickle their way down to his fingertips. When the pale color has returned to a state of normality, John tucks his wrist in against his chest (to prevent further thievery) and rolls back over towards Sherlock. He is greeted by a long, bony back curled against his general direction. John scoots in closer and noses his way past a few curls to plant a soft kiss against the lobe of Sherlock's ear, sneaking his left arm around the diminutive waist to pull his partner closer for warmth.


	121. Pins 2- Johnlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't make up my mind today, so for the 150th prompt I've ever filled out (that's counting across all fandoms), here's three fills for one prompt.

Sherlock is still not entirely used to the idea of going to bed with John. It's warm and inviting, by all means, but it is and has always been John's personal sanctum. Not that Sherlock ever was barred from intruding on the doctor's privacy, but he took seclusion into the upstairs area as a desire for some, which was sometimes respected. It was a strange concept, then, that Sherlock be tugged into this space as well, granted access without words.

Sherlock only finally feels that he belongs when John pins him to the mattress with a shy smile and a fierce blush. A gentle kiss to the pale skin over the larynx becomes a gentle bite. MINE, it proclaims silently, as John's shoulder starts to give out on him and he lowers his weight carefully down over Sherlock's frame. The ever-thoughtful doctor is certain to leave room for breathing, and is rewarded with a warm breeze across his scalp, followed by a firm hug around his chest. Cold fingers weasel their way under John's tee shirt to steal his warmth, and he parts from Sherlock's chest just long enough to reach back and pull the comforter over them both.


	122. Pins 3- Retirement Johnlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't make up my mind today, so for the 150th prompt I've ever filled out (that's counting across all fandoms), here's three fills for one prompt.

John shuffles into the kitchen in his bathrobe and slippers, greeted by the sound of chirping birds, and the sight of Sherlock hunched over the kitchen table. "I said, could you hand me a couple of pins, John?"  
John only shakes his head with a little smile, too weary to argue that he hadn't been in the room to hear the request. He instead reaches into the pin box at the end of the table and delicately places two of them into Sherlock's outstretched palm, and heads to the stove to put the kettle on. Sherlock stretches back for a moment to survey his work. The iridescent insect wings pinned to the cork-board glisten in the morning sun, along with the few lines of silver which have worked their way into Sherlock's curls.

"You know, Sherlock," John murmurs affectionately as he places a steaming mug of tea by the beekeeper's side, "Most people only put this kind of effort into a display of butterflies."

"Hm. Yes. Dull." Sherlock reaches for the jar of honey in the center of the table and dollops a drop into his mug. "Butterflies have nothing going for them but their looks. Bees are far more efficient and productive. And besides, look at the differences here between the honey bee, the bumblebee, and the carpenter bee! Fascinating, isn't it? And that's just the workers!"

John only smiles and claps a gentle grip on Sherlock's shoulders. He is content to see Sherlock so absorbed in his work, and leaves the ex-detective to it. Another shipment of Hamish-Holmes Honey was due, and the stock wasn't going to collect itself.


	123. Puddle- Kidlock

It had rained for a week. Sometimes it was just a light drizzle, and sometimes the skies cracked themselves open as though they had a fatal wound. Perhaps the clouds which frequently assaulted the little islands of Great Britain meant to finally finish them off in one fell swoop. While they didn't succeed, the barrage did leave the earth remarkably soggy.

On the first day the sun dared to show itself, Mycroft took his 18th birthday present for a test drive. Excited and still a bit unruly behind the wheel, he streaked down the driveway and swerved into the yard a bit, leaving a deep tire trench in the muddy grass. A firm scolding from Mummy ensured that he would be more careful next time, or she would simply take the car back, and he would simply be chauffered for the rest of his life, and how would he like that.

It rained again later that day, trapping the boys inside once more with their schoolwork and reading.

Three days later, it seemed the clouds had finally exhausted their efforts, and Sherlock was scooted out the door in a pair of tall rubber boots ("And don't even THINK about getting your trousers muddy, young man!") while Mycroft went cavorting with his mates. As he was about to leave, Mycroft saw Sherlock crouched near the ground, poking at something with a stick.

Upon further inspection, Mycroft found that the tire-trench he'd left in the yard had filled up with water and become the hatchery for fifty-odd tiny little black tadpoles. The curious eight-year-old was toying with them with mild interest as his brother approached from behind. "Look, Mycroft," he grinned, as the elder boy's shadow fell across the puddle, "You've created a habitat!"

Mycroft chuckled softly. "If you want to call it that. Just because a toad can't tell the difference between a hole in the mud and a proper pond doesn't mean it's really a habitat."

Sherlock considered this, and realized the distinction- the little puddle had enough room in it for eggs to hatch, sure, but had not been in existence long enough to cultivate a layer of algae for the tadpoles to eat. "They'll all die, won't they?"

Mycroft hummed softly as he continued on his stroll to the car. "Without a doubt. Most amphibians do these days, for one reason or another. I would be surprised if there are any left twenty years from now." He clambered into the driver's seat, all long legs and umbrella and posh suit, and was soon gone.

Sherlock dawdled at the puddle for a moment longer, somehow regarding these unfortunate tadpoles with a new sense of importance. The inclination passed after a while, however, as he remembered how Mycroft had dismissed conservation as a valiant but futile effort. The young boy tossed his stick aside and gave a frustrated kick at the stagnant water, sending a couple tadpoles flying into the soggy grass.


	124. Bitten- Renegade Sherlock

Sherlock collapsed onto the side of his cot and gingerly tugged the hem of his jeans up to his knees, drawing a sharp intake of breath as the shredded fabric pulled out and away from a savage wound. Sherlock reeled a bit at the sight of where he'd been bitten, surprised by the rough edges and the blood-saliva mix which had streaked down his calf and been spread around as he ran.

The lonesome detective ran through John's process in his mind, trying to recall all the steps that the doctor would go through. His small accommodations didn't include an antiseptic in the bathroom cabinet, so the bottle of vodka he'd been carrying as a part of his disguise would have to do. He nervously ran his fingers though his hair, only to find with a renewed sense of surprise that his hair was no longer there to indulge his habit. The thoughts of John had put him in a familiar state of mind, and he'd momentarily forgotten how different he would look in a mirror.

Coughing a bit into his sleeve at the alcoholic fumes, he poured the clear liquid liberally over the wound and fetched the cleanest fabric he could find- a pair of freshly-washed boxers, and dabbed gently at his calf with a little wince. He slowly pressed the fabric onto the wound and secured it with masking tape wrapped thrice around the entire shin. Heaven forbid it re-open during his future travels, he couldn't afford to risk going to a hospital and being recognized.

The only positive thing that kept the poor fugitive from bemoaning his current situation was that he had accomplished his goal for today. He'd managed to extract a name and location for where to go next, and had swiftly disposed of one more threat to John's life. Sherlock knew he was getting sloppy as his desperation grew, however. He hadn't accounted for the Russian gunman's attack dog.


	125. Nourish- Johnlock

John settled into the armchair across from Sherlock with a bit of a sigh. He had already written up their last case, replied to all the comments, checked his email, done the shopping, put away the clean dishes, and visited with Mrs. Husdon for a while. Now he found himself in the curious predicament of boredom. He steepled his fingers under his chin in an imitation of his friend, who was occupied with a thick textbook on pathology.

"Bored."

Sherlock lifted his gaze to meet John's and lifted an eyebrow, unamused. "And?"

John smiled wistfully and wished he'd learned an instrument as a child, so as to practice on it at times like these. He wondered if anything good was on the telly, but the prospects on a Saturday morning were grim. "Let's go somewhere," he whined, "I'm sick of just sitting around with nothing to do."

"YOU can go somewhere," Sherlock drawled, turning to a new page on influenza, "I'm busy." He read for a moment longer, skin burning under John's focused gaze, before adding, "I brought you a book."

John raised his eyebrows, "You what?" It was unlike the detective to bring John things unprompted, so of course there must be a catch.

"It's on my bed, if you're interested. I thought it might nourish your vivid sense of imagination." He smiled gently as the bored doctor wandered into his bedroom and back, running his fingers over the worn cover of the Odyssey.

"Thanks," John smiled back at Sherlock, "It's just what I needed." He settled in for a good read and figured he would deal with any ulterior motives later.


	126. Rattle- Kidlock

John had snuck back into Mycroft's sitting room after dinner, and had pulled out yet another book of old photos. Not nearly SO old this time, however, as they were printed in color with only a little bit of a grainy texture. The dates in the corners confirmed, 1970s. He flipped through pictures of a happy nuclear family dressed in only the finest of garb; their ten-year-old son was holding a newborn. The parents regarded each other with a cold fondness. The young boy, John presumed Mycroft, was the only one in the picture who still had the nerve to smile. He was beaming down at his new baby brother, like he was the most cherished possession in the world.

A few pages later, and the date showed 06 01 1974. An infant with matted dark curls sat in a high seat, his face smothered in cake. In one hand he held more out to his brother, in the other hand he tightly gripped at a giant, old-fashioned magnifying glass. "Happy 1st Birthday," the banner on his chair read.

John smiled and tried not to get emotional at the sight, a young budding detective with this glass as his plaything instead of any ordinary baby's rattle. He wondered what had happened to these two brothers and their family, which forced them into the strained relationship they had now.


	127. Entice- Johnlock

Sherlock didn't mind John's bed. In fact, it was probably more comfortable than his own, if he cared to admit it. The doctor's firm mattress was an excellent support for the back, and the covers were kept remarkably straight and neat. (As was the rest of the room, to John's credit.)

However, there were times when Sherlock felt as though their relationship was a bit unbalanced in certain regards. While the withdrawn detective knew that John would never force or even insinuate starting something without Sherlock's interest and explicit permission, it still left Sherlock ill at ease sometimes... As though he had less control over the situation, because he was a guest in John's space.

It was a conscious effort, then, when he took the time to put his studies aside for a day and tend to more common duties. He threw the windows of his bedroom open to let in the cool, fresh air and evacuate the musty smell that had built up from his last experiment. He skittered about his room, tossing anything soiled into the hamper, and surprised Mrs. Hudson when he passed her by with it on the way to the laundry machines in the basement.

Last but not least, he folded his bed-covers with the same military precision he had seen John employ on his bed-frame, hoping to entice the doctor in with something familiar.

By the time John came home from his level-3 case, Sherlock was crouched in his armchair with a disconcerting grin. It was only a few hours later that John found out why, as Sherlock led him by the arm to the lower-level bedroom, hardly recognizable in its cleanliness.

"Wow, Sherlock," John nearly whispered in awe, "What's got into you?"

Sherlock had to hold himself back from an undignified giggle, "You have, in more ways than one." He pulled John into his bed and curled a firm arm around him, holding him possessively.

John wasn't sure what the point was that Sherlock was trying to make, but he didn't mind the attention. It was always a rare occasion when the mad genius took a pause from the world of science and focused his attentions on a human being.

Sherlock sighed happily as he tipped the scales back into balance, pulling John into his world as much as had happened vice-versa.


	128. Desk- Mystrade

Lestrade sighed as he parked his motorcycle in the alley next to his new apartment. Hurrying inside before the brooding clouds overhead decided to open fire, he ducked in the doorframe and checked his mail. A couple bills greeted him, alongside a firm white envelope marked with the royal seal. Curious, he hung his riding jacket up and brought the mail into the kitchen. The bills could be dealt with later; the unusual envelope would be his reading material over dinner.  
The kippers and crackers were a sorry contrast to the fancy penmanship that greeted him under the heading, "From the desk of Mycroft Holmes."  
Squinting to make out the letters hidden in the loopy scrawl, Lestrade could make out what appeared to be an invitation. A garden party? Greg never got invited to these sorts of events, and he wasn't sure that now was the time to start. He would have to have a word with Mycroft about dragging commoners and policemen into the posh world of the parlaiment.   
Although, Greg conceded silently to himself, Mycroft was probably more than familiar with the intricacies of the situation. The DI wondered if this was a challenge, to see if he could step up to the plate and adapt to a new situation.  
If so, he agreed with a nod at the imposing letter, challenge accepted.


	129. Bang- Post reichenbach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter is an AU situation that I'm not overly fond of. Contains implied character death.

Mrs. Hudson was pleased to see John making an attempt to move on with his life. He'd continued on at the surgery and gotten promoted, and had met a nice girl named Mary. The two got on fabulously, and it seemed to take John's mind off the gaping hole left in his life after Sherlock.

The maternal little old lady could see that John still thought often about his missing friend, and had slowly given up hope that the death had been somehow an elaborate hoax. The poor doctor's limp had returned in full, but he still enjoyed an occasional night out with Mary. It was a couple months in, however, when Mrs. Hudson heard shouting; a heated argument was going on between the two budding lovers, and the few words she could make out seemed to be "Sherlock" and "Never good enough" and "Don't understand."

Loud footsteps resounded down the stairs, clacking with the pointed heel of a woman's shoes as the front door out to the street slammed shut.

Mrs. Hudson considered going up to console John, but thought better of it. He'd want to be able to handle this on his own, without forever needing an emotional crutch. Plus, her hip had gotten especially bad, and if he needed her he'd come downstairs.

A day later, and John still hadn't left his flat. Mrs. Hudson had begun to get a little worried, and was about to go up and check on him when her blood ran cold at the BANG of a pistol.


	130. Earring- Mystrade

Greg had arrived at the royal garden party just as the sun was beginning to sink below the skyline. The golden rays glinted off his silver hairs, a stunning contrast to the midnight-blue suit he'd managed to get steam-pressed in time for the affair. He stood uncomfortably beside Mycroft, holding his umbrella for him as the politician collected two glasses of Chardonnay from a passing tray-bearer. The two sipped at them in silence as they purveyed their present company.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" A bemused murmur from somewhere just above Greg's head snapped him out of his thoughts for a second.

"Yeah, if you call feeling horribly out of place a form of enjoyment. You?"

Mycroft only gave a strained smile and focused his attention on one of the fancier couples. The man, dressed in a deep maroon three-piece, stroked his moustache as his wife told an incredibly droll story to two other guests. Lestrade followed his host's gaze and saw that the woman was missing an earring, the other one still swinging wildly from her right lobe with each cranial gesture.

"She hasn't yet noticed the asymmetry," Mycroft pointed out, "Though I'll wager that she or her captive audience will in the next five minutes. It has probably fallen into the ambrosia salad, judging by the splatter along the back of her sleeve."

Greg only rolled his eyes, happy to not be on duty for the night. He surreptitiously took Mycroft by the elbow and led him to a different part of the gardens before the insufferable genius could be proved correct.


	131. Return/Homecoming- Fugitive Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oneword didn't put up a new word today, so I'm using one of the peer prompts that I got on ff.n. Feel free to leave me one here, too!

Sherlock pinned the Chinese sniper to the ground by the neck. "I need a name," he snarled. "You'll give me a name and very preferably a location if you don't want to spend the pitiful rest of your life in your own personal hell."

The determined detective-turned-hunter was rewarded with a glob of spit in his face. A sharp smack against the pavement with the gunman's skull got him talking. "He's the last one," he spat out in fear, "And he'll know you're coming. He might not know it's you, but he'll notice that he hasn't been getting his regular check-ins from me and Balstrad."

Sherlock's heart soared at the good news, but he hid it well. "Give. Me. A NAME." His knuckles trembled in their grip at the man's collar.

"Moran," Hu choked, "He's been keeping an eye on your little pet this whole time, personally."

"Thank you, that's all I needed." Sherlock's blood ran cold as he swiftly and painlessly dispatched Hu, already planning a strategy to return to London and get to Moran before he could get to John.

Wiping his hands clean, Sherlock pulled out his disposable phone and dialed the one number he'd bothered to put into its contacts.

"Hullo?" Molly's voice sounded sleepy, and Sherlock idly remembered that the time difference would make it quite an inconvenient hour in England.

"Molly, it's me," Sherlock murmured, "It's time you and I planned my homecoming."


	132. Sunglasses- JohnxSeb, Fugitive Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not too often that two consecutive prompts will be so close to each other; I guess I felt like it was about time that particular part of the timeline got filled in a little better.

Sherlock curled into the corner of the bistro, nervously hidden in a hoodie, ripped jeans, and a pair of sunglasses large enough to cover his cheekbones. Half of his mind was on constant alert, surveying those around him to make sure he wasn't recognized. The other half was concentrated on the two men seated closer to the door, engaged in friendly conversation. The shorter one had his elbow propped on the table, resting a casual grip on his cup of tea as the sunlit window highlighted a golden sheen to his hair. A metal collapsible cane rested against the wall beside him.

The taller man, adorned with a shaggy brown bowl cut and three-day stubble, leaned back against his chair, his hips scooted forward just enough to make room for the pistol concealed in the waistband against his back. Without having to re-consult his references, Sherlock knew that this man matched the descriptions and photographs of one Sebastian Moran. When Hu told him that the sniper was keeping a personal watch on John, he hadn't been exaggerating.

Sherlock sat in his booth for awhile longer, resisting the urge to curl his knees up to his chin, as he knew the distinctive gesture would be a dead giveaway to John. The literary part of Sherlock's mind cringed at the idiom.

A careful observation of the interaction between the two sharpshooters revealed a well-established friendship. They were comfortable in each other's company, and were happy to discuss subjects of both a personal and general nature. John shared his morning paper with Sebastian, who poured over it with a hawkish stare. Sebastian told John of his prior night's conquest, complete with lewd charades, and John laughed heartily and took a bite of his scone.

Sherlock stood and ordered a drink to go, hiding his face with it as he passed his quarry on his way out the door. This situation required delicacy and careful planning. If he was to make himself known to John, it would mean the end of John's friendship with Sebastian. Sherlock tried not to let himself think about the benefits of leaving the situation as it was.


	133. Slight

They're returning home from a crime scene, where Lestrade has been unusually obstinate, and Sherlock has stolen his handcuffs as payment. The brooding detective tosses them onto the seat of the taxi, between himself and John. The doctor chuckles softly and lifts them to inspect before handing them back to Sherlock, where they become a plaything, spinning around one long finger.  
"It's funny, you know," John muses softly at Sherlock, who is surely going over the evidence and clues, fresh in his mind.  
"Hrm? What is?" The pale, focused gaze out the window at the passing scenery doesn't shift, the conversation not even a distraction from his thoughts.  
"You. For someone who solves crimes for a living, you've got the stickiest fingers of anyone I know." He considers for a moment before adding, "How DO you do that, anyway?"  
Sherlock glances over at him as the street lights flash over his face. "The pickpocketing? It's only a slight of hand. I could teach you if you'd like."  
John grins and agrees, and the two practice together once they reach the flat. After an hour or so, John can successfully filch Sherlock's magnifying glass from his pocket. Sherlock assures him that on any other target, his efforts would go unnoticed.

John only realizes as he goes to bed that the lesson may have been a monumental waste of time. As Sherlock has no qualms about taking what he wants from others, John knows he would feel far too guilty to steal even an inconsequential trinket from anyone.

Next week, as John is just finishing up the shopping, a beady-eyed little asian woman cuts in front of the doctor and snatches up the last jar of his favorite jam before he could reach it. Her abraisive glare only adds to the insult, and John finally finds himself in a position to vindicate a slight against his good will.  
It is with no small sense of satisfaction that John places the last jar of brambleberry jam on the conveyer belt with his order, the offending shopper none the wiser.


	134. Swan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is another one I'd really like to see drawn. Are any of my readers artists?

John had been helping Sherlock with his physical therapy after the short fall from a second-story balcony which had dislocated his shoulder. The joint had healed very well, and was almost entirely functional again, the stubborn detective urging it forward in its recovery perhaps a little too quickly. John was keen to slow him down whenever he winced at the residual pain or stiffness.  
As a final exercise, John had dragged Sherlock back to the university swimming pool, this time during hours of operation. The water-based strain would do the joint good, and John looked forward to the swim. In addition to the lifeguard, there was only one other person in the pool, an elderly fellow who swam steady laps back and forth and minded his own business.

John waited in the shallow end for Sherlock to come out of the locker room and join him, lazily treading water in his swim trunks, diving under to wet his hair as he kept his shoulders beneath the surface out of a slight sense of modesty. The water’s refraction made it hard to make out his scar.

The door to the locker room swung shut, and John looked ’round to see the lanky detective heading instead for the deep end. His lithe form was nearly as white as the linoleum, the surface broken only by a matching blue speedo and swim cap, the dark curls tucked in for protection. Goggles hid the pale eyes, though John was sure that still nothing was hidden from Sherlock’s view. He watched with growing apprehension as Sherlock climbed the ladder of the taller diving board. A light bounce into the air, and soon Sherlock was executing a perfect swan dive into the deep end. John was reminded briefly of the fall that Sherlock had taken off Bart’s those years ago, though this performance was far more streamlined and graceful.

The white dolphin slid easily beneath the surface, angling his momentum to send him shooting along the floor of the pool, only to surface by John’s side. A punch was delivered to his good shoulder.

“You idiot.” The pout given to the doctor was almost comical, given the dark goggles. “You bloody well know this was for recuperation, not showing off. You could have re-injured your shoulder!”

Sherlock huffed softly and worked his elbow in great circles at his side. “No harm done, of course. In fact, I think I may be back to a fully operational status.”

John only rolled his eyes and laid back to float on the surface, successfully averting his gaze from the small blue speedo which left very little to the imagination.


	135. Sound- Wholock

Mrs. Hudson had just returned home from Speedy’s, carrying a large sack of bagels. She set it down inside the doorstep as she paused to slip out of her shoes. She was just about to head into the kitchen with her bagels, when she heard that sound again- the one that was unlike any other, which had accompanied the boys' excited return after a strange meeting with a friend she’d never heard of. The landlady tried to place the sound, and found that it was almost as though… someone had taken the larger metal strings out of a piano, and was running something along them. It was godawful and went on for several seconds before ending with a thump.

Stock still in the foyer with her bag of bagels, Mrs. Hudson stood and listened. All was quiet for another moment, until the doorbell rang.

The peephole revealed a strange man in tweed, braces, and a bow-tie. She’d never met him before, but he seemed harmless enough. Pulling the door open with her free arm, Mrs. Hudson blinked owlishly at the man. “Can I help you, young man?”

He grinned wide and bounced a bit on his toes. “Yes, exactly, I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes?” He sniffed vigorously at the air between them, excitedly adding, “And are those onion bagels?!? I wonder if I still like those…”

Mrs. Hudson reached into her bag and pulled one out for her visitor, "Why don't you find out?" She smiled as he nibbled at the onion-crusted surface, made a pinched face, then ate a bit more. "I'm afraid Sherlock and John are out at the moment, probably will be until much later tonight. Could I take a message for them?"

He nodded and swallowed, tucking the rest of the bagel into his coat pocket for safekeeping. "Yes, let them know the Doctor dropped by? I've got a case for Sherlock on Omnicron Theta in the capitol city, most pressing." He brushed the front of his shirt for crumbs, then added as an afterthought, "Actually, I'm just going to pop ahead to this evening, care to join me?"

Mrs. Hudson giggled at the smile the young man gave her, and considered for a moment. "I haven't the foggiest what you mean, but I'm not doing anything. You wait right here." She let him stand in the foyer as she placed her bagels in the kitchen cupboard.

"You know," the Doctor told her as he led her outside towards seemingly nowhere important, "You remind me of an old friend of mine. I bet you and Wilf would get along fantastically."

"If you say so, dear," she answered playfully as she took his elbow and followed him towards a police box. What a strange fellow.


	136. Entrée- Mystrade

Greg tried to keep his head down as he stole glances around the restaurant. “I still can’t believe you’ve brought me here,” he hissed, “I’ve never even laid eyes on this part of town… There aren’t even any crimes here!” After a bit he stopped and nearly ducked under the table, his face burning beet red. “Shit, is that the Chief?”

Mycroft glanced in that direction. “Of course it is, Chief O’Brien frequents this facility on the weekends. Now if you’ll concentrate,” he sighs, tugging on Greg’s elbow patch, “Our waiter will be interrogating us in three minutes and thirty seconds, and I’d prefer it if you were prepared to place an order.”

Greg sighed in turn and turned his attention to the menu. He passed by Foie Gras, Filet Mignon, Schweinshaxe and Jägerschnitzel, and suddenly noticed that not a single entrée had a price included next to it. “Ah, Mycroft,” he was about to ask, when the elder Holmes brother employed the apparent mind-reading ability that both brothers occasionally displayed.

“In any dining establishment of this caliber,” Mycroft explained, “It is assumed that the patrons will want only the highest quality… And are willing and able to pay for it without concern.” He delicately laid his fingertips atop Greg’s knee to quell any protests. “Your part will be on my tab, of course. Have you come to a decision, Detective Inspector?”

Greg nodded softly, certain that the question referred to more than the uncalled-for display he had been subjected to. If this… whatever-it-was would go any further, it would have to first be put to a few tests of a different nature. Lestrade wondered how Mycroft would fare in a tent on the hillsides of Scotland.


	137. Foolish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This prompt comes from Darkfoxx on ff.n

Sherlock sat on his newly-reclaimed armchair, nursing his bruised cheek with a bag of frozen peas. The swelling has gone down a bit, though it still throbs painfully. He idly wonders if he'll be able to make out individual knuckle-marks the following day. Molly stares at him with an obnoxious, motherly pout of worry. John glares at him unabashedly, a silent challenge directed at the tall blonde fugitive to avert his gaze to the floor and in doing so admit his wrongdoing.

"I cannot BELIEVE you," John growls, clenching and unclenching his fists in a muscle-recall of the previous five minutes. "Do you have ANY idea wha... how..." He trails off wordlessly, the anger proving too much to be expressed coherently.

"John," Sherlock leans forward in his chair, "If you'll let me explain,"

"Oh yes, fuck, explain!" John reels up out of his chair and paces about the room, turning back towards Sherlock only to throw additional anger in his direction. "Please, enlighten me with your superior fucking logic!" He stomps toward the kitchen, and Molly leans back against the table, shying away from his rage. "How, just HOW could you possibly reason out FAKING YOUR OWN DEATH as being anything but the cruelest and most inconsiderate action ever taken by any human being?" The livid doctor rests with his palm on the table, supporting the side that has taken to limping again.

"It wasn't his idea, John," Molly whimpers from a foot away, cowering towards the sink. "You know Moriarty was involved. There was no other option."

John glances at her and loses a shade of his ire, sinking down into the kitchen chair beside her as he can't even bear to be on even terms with Sherlock right now. "Fine," he spits from across the room, "What happened?"

"He gave me a choice," Sherlock murmured as he stared at the floor, running his fingers through his hair and again surprising himself with its absence, "Between myself, and those I care for." He glanced up to meet John's eyes, "Which of course is no choice at all." John's silence encouraged him on. "The world had to see me die or else his people would kill you. It is only through Molly's surgical skill and some tactical strategy on the part of my homeless network that I was able to survive at all. Otherwise the death would not have been a fake one."

"Right. Yeah. Okay." John sat and processed the story, trying to keep up with the leaps in logic that Sherlock had left out of the account. "So whoever was going to kill me had to think you were dead. I get that. But..." He looked back at Sherlock, who had his lips buried behind his fingertips, "Why did I have to think you were dead?"

"I..." Sherlock faltered, trying to find a way to phrase his reasoning without angering John further.

"You were already under media attention," Molly interjected helpfully, "If you had to keep this gigantic secret at the same time, well... We didn't want to risk that the burden would be too much for you to bear. Publicly."

John licked his lower lip, interpreting the subtext behind Molly's assurances. "You didn't trust me," he sighed, "I get it. I'm not some emotionally-stunted scientist like you lot. I wouldn't be able to play the part. I'd give you all away, I get it. But Sherlock," he seethed again, "How could you be so foolish as to keep me in the dark for a WHOLE FUCKING YEAR? Did it never occur to you what it might be like after all the media hype died down? When the graffiti stopped and nobody cared, and I had to go about with my fucking mundane life like you'd never existed in the first place?"

The poor doctor gestured pointedly to his leg, still accompanied by the metal cane which the hospital had given him three weeks in. "I lost my best friend," he muttered, and even softer added, "My only friend..."

Sherlock sighed at the melodrama. "That's not entirely true, and is in fact a point which bears discussing. The time I've been absent has been spent tracking down the gunmen under Moriarty's employment, and all those who would step up to replace them in the act of... exacting his last assignment." He winced softly at the harsh image of John with the bullet through his brain, a mirror of Moriarty.

"But there's still one left," Molly continued on in his stead, trying to keep the tensions low, "Sebastian Moran, your friend from the army, has been Moriarty's number two, his main man, from the very beginning."

John gaped at the both of them, putting together the pieces. The coincidental meeting at Goodale Park, the allusions to losing someone close, the insistence on keeping tabs on each other... It all made sense, when John considered that Seb was there with a gun pointed at him the whole time. "The bastard," he growled.

Sherlock smiled weakly, his only comfort being that John would not miss Sebastian's company after this was all over.


	138. Lilacs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rairakku1234 from ff.n prompted this one!

Sherlock was draped across the living room sofa, the afternoon beams soaking in through the window to warm his aching joints. His left leg had been acting up lately, the barometric pressures playing havock with the damaged cartelidge and screw-bound femur. He had taken to a more sedentary lifestyle during the past couple weeks while John picked up the slack. Fortunately the beekeeping work wasn't too difficult, and even John was able to keep up with the steady supply of orders they'd been getting from their little online business.

Sherlock had just finished the last chapter of his latest book on the intricacies of Indian culture and subcultures as the good doctor fumbled one-handed with the keys to the front door. He finally pushed his way into the cottage, the other arm wrapped around a burlap sack containing the root system of one adolescent lilac tree. It was a good four feet tall already, and the top of it bent as it hit against the doorframe on the way in. Heavy clusters of blooms weighed down three of the branches, and Sherlock could smell the pungent (but not unpleasant) blossoms from across the room.

"Remember that gift certificate to the nursery Mike gave us at our anniversary party? I finally got around to spending it!" The shorter man beamed at his partner as the flowers sprinkled pollen in his already-greying hairs. "I thought the bees would like it."

Sherlock smiled back, setting the book aside and straining up from the couch to make his way over to John's find. One hand resting on the doctor's shoulder, he leaned in and buried his nose in one of the lavender clusters, inhaling as he inspected the quality and volume of nectar. "They'll love it," he granted John his automatic anthropomorphization of the hive-mind insects with a pat on his shoulder. "We can make a trip out to the other side of MacLearson's wheat field tomorrow to plant it."

John frowned. "Across the field? I was rather hoping we could have it here, by the house?" The bees weren't the only ones who were attracted to the sweet scent of the delicate blossoms.

Sherlock shook his head and hobbled back over to the couch, flopping down onto it unceremoniously. "Bees don't collect from plants within a certain radius of their own hive, it would get mixed in with their excrements. If we planted the lilacs here, they'd only end up being used by another hive, not our own."

John hummed softly in disappointment as he set the shrubbery down on the back porch. Maybe he didn't care so much if another hive got to it.


	139. Scorn

Sherlock stole glances across the top of his textbook at John as he read, processing both the written information and several other trains of thought simultaneously. The older man was curled into his armchair with a thick quilt and a mug of tea, watching the news. Some stories brought an anxious crinkle to the doctor's brow, while others had his nodding thoughtfully. Suddenly, John's face shadowed into a scowl of scorn at the telly's information. It was strange for Sherlock to see this expression on the face which he had become so accustomed to seeing in a state of kindness and concern. The detective couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen John get angry any anyone other than himself, and never before with this shade of disrespect and dismissal.

Out of curiosity, Sherlock turned his gaze to the story at hand. There was a female behind an anchor's desk, strawberry blonde and of slightly above-average aesthetic values. Sherlock knew that this woman was very much John's type, so she couldn't possibly be the issue of dissent. He diverted another fraction of his attention to the subject of her speech. "...while amazing in the obscurity of his range of knowledge, seems to display some typical symptoms of Aspberger's, and in extreme cases, even Psychopathy, as accounted by a colleague from the Scotland Yard."

The scene cut to a video clip of Sally Donovan in her uniform, a microphone pressed to her face. "Yeah, he's insane," she quipped dismissively, "The only thing that makes him happy is a good murder. I wouldn't be surprised to see him switch fields in the future, if you know what I mean."

The anchorwoman reappeared at her desk, with a cutaway in the corner showing that beloved photo of Sherlock ducking away behind a deerstalker. "Well there you have it, folks. If you've got a question that needs answered, Sherlock Holmes is your man... so long as it's gruesome, obscure, or both." The channel quickly switched gears and went on to cover the latest football match.  
Sherlock flickered his gaze back over to John, who seemed to be positively seething. "How DARE they?" He growled around clenched teeth, fingers digging into the plush arms of his chair.

Sherlock only chuckled. "You really are too sensitive when it comes to the media," he prodded playfully, "If anything that was quite good publicity, and may even help thin out the more mundane queries we get. Actually," now that Sherlock paused to recount the few other times he'd paid attention to local media, "As far as news stories go, it was one of the more accurate I've seen."

John grumbled softly but said no more, not bothering to correct Sherlock about the media being what he was sensitive about.


	140. Chapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the only context besides lips/hands I could think of. I hate it when they give you a prompt that really only has one usage.

John gripped at his knees anxiously as the two rode in the back seat of the taxi. Sherlock still hadn't told him where they were going, and the ride was getting progressively bumpier as they headed to the very outskirts of the city and the roads became rough from poor upkeep. John wasn't sure whether they were on a case, and if they were, why Sherlock would tell him nothing about it.

Finally, the cab stopped just past the edge of the city limits, at what appeared to be the end of a very long gravel driveway. Sherlock paid him heartily and arranged for a pickup appointment in three hours' time. They climbed out onto the road and headed down the driveway, and John noticed for the first time that Sherlock had replaced his usual Oxfords with tall, thick-leathered boots which ran over his trouser legs to the height of his knees. For that matter, now that John was paying attention, he noticed that Sherlock's trousers were different as well. A stretchier material hugged his thighs and went seamlessly between his legs. By the time they approached the sign for Saturnalia Stables, John had just made the connection. At his hum of recognition, Sherlock smiled down at him.

"You mentioned you wanted to try riding, yes? I thought this weekend would be a perfect opportunity." John nodded in agreement, as the weather couldn't have been any nicer. Only a single cloud marred the perfect blue expanse above their heads, a rare sight indeed. The winds were firm, but not viciously so, and Sherlock's coat-tails and curls ruffled amicably along with each gust. The tails of the horses who chose that moment to gallop out from behind the main arena did as well, excluding those which were still in loose braids.

John grinned in excitement as Sherlock made arrangements with the stable hands. Soon John was being fitted for rental gear, and Sherlock's own personal gear was brought out of storage. John halfheartedly wondered if he secretly had his own horse hidden away as well.

"I haven't been here in months," Sherlock rambled off to John as they were led through the stables full of horses brought in for a meal. "I stopped coming as often after secondary school, and when my childhood horse passed, Mummy didn't bother getting me another one. I'm sure Mycroft still has one of his own, though."

They passed an immaculate door where a tall, muscular chestnut thoroughbred had her face buried in a bag of alfalfa. "Borealis," read her name plaque.

"Ah yes, that'll be the one," Sherlock sneered. He gestured to their guide, who had a look at the membership card which Sherlock had filched off his brother the previous weekend, and went in with the royal blue halter hanging by the door. He emerged with Mycroft's horse by the lead, and Sherlock took her out into the arena. "You go pick one out, and meet me in there," he called back over his shoulder.

John found himself alone with the guide and a good twenty horses to choose from. He did a quick scan and made his way to the shortest one he could find, a blue roan quarter horse/Tennessee walker mix. "Pepper," he read off the sign on the door. The guide led Pepper out for him, and John was pleased to see that the withers only just reached to nose-level. The better to fall from, he reasoned.

Next, the doctor met Sherlock in the small enclosure of a hallway which led to the arena. The two horses were tied to the walls by their halters, while Sherlock tacked up his borrowed horse and their guide did the same for John. The doctor took his last chance to have a seat on a solid chair and stretch any last trouble out of his tricky leg. He watched with fascination as Sherlock bent to clean Borealis' hooves, his leather-chapped arse raised in the air as he flicked a small pebble out from next to the frog. Soon both horses were fitted with a saddle blanket, saddle, and bridle, if John was remembering all this correctly as Sherlock nostalgically volunteered the information to him from somewhere behind the poll.

The two equines were led into the arena, and Sherlock, riding crop in hand, made an impossibly long stretch with his left hamstring from the ground to the stirrup. John made a mental note of his flexibility for later, and the stouter doctor was given a step stool. Pepper gave him an encouraging nicker, and with a wary test at the stirrup, he flung himself over the saddle and immediately wished he'd never mentioned this in the first place at all.


	141. Poster

The nights at Mycroft's were rough, for the most part. Sherlock, as always, had trouble sleeping, and often lay awake throughout the night, just barely catching snippets of conversations that his brother would be having in his office a floor above. Twice during the week it thunderstormed at ungodly hours in the morning, and the heavy raindrops echoed loudly as they struck the panes of the window and the small terrace outside.

John slept through it all, though not smoothly. His nightmares were as bad as they'd ever been, though he didn't remember the next morning that they'd been laced with fleeting sensations of betrayal and insurgencies. His frantic, unconscious thrashing, the side of him which was not pinned down in Sherlock's grasp, left several dark bruises along his limbs where he'd struck himself against the solid wooden posters at the corners of the bed. Sherlock tried to wrap his friend a little tighter in a blanket, but that only seemed to heighten the panic, as his pulse skyrocketed and his breathing was labored between the whimpers and pleading and the occasional shout. It was a wonder the veteran didn't wake himself, Sherlock mused as he dodged a kick to the knee.

As the week neared its end and they got the all-clear sign from the fumigation team, Mrs. Hudson and the boys retrieved their laundry from the basement facilities and packed up to go back to their own, familiar abode. John had a final look at the bed as he zipped up his suitcase on its duvet, seemingly lost in a thought.

"You know, Sherlock," he piped up on the way to the black car where Mrs. Hudson was ready and waiting, "Maybe we should get a four-poster bed."

Sherlock frowned at him. "With the number of bruises it gave you? I didn't realize you were such a masochist, John."

The doctor flushed and ducked his head, "No, actually, I... I was just thinking those posters would be awfully handy for attaching ropes to." Sherlock's squint of confusion only futhered his silly mood, and Mrs. Hudson had to wonder what the giggles were for as John climbed in next to her.


	142. Balloons (a sequel to Balloon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oneword repeated itself again yesterday, and I kind of missed it. I'll still write for it here, though.

John clutched tightly with one hand on the side of the basket and one on the strong tether rope which stretched overhead. The roar of the flame in one ear, the whistling of the wind in the other, he could barely make out Sherlock's harried observations.

"The other balloons are following the same route," he called out over the winds, curls whipping about wildly, "We're just about to pass over the crash site, keep your eyes peeled!"

John kept his eyes firmly planted on the trees directly below the basket as they passed over them, trying to focus on the fresh air more than on the queasiness that was building up in his stomach. He reached over the side and dropped a sandbag when Sherlock shouted at him to do so, but then quickly clamped back on to the rope.

Suddenly, as they reached a new altitude, John's vision was flooded with butterflies, in fluttering shades of brown, orange, and white. The whole balloon was surrounded by them, and John found himself giggling as Sherlock waved his arms at the ornate insects, trying to clear his line of vision to the ground. This only seemed to encourage them, as a few landed and clung to his coat and hair. Within seconds, the frustrated detective turned in exasperation to his partner, nearly coated in the fluttering orange wings as the butterflies took advantage of the free ride.

"Whatever it was that made Doctor Roscigno a target, whatever it was he SAW from up here, we've now missed it, thanks to these infernal butterflies!" He spat the last word as one of the powder-scaled wings nicked him in the mouth. He shook himself violently, shooing the insects back out into the airflow, then sunk down against the side of the basket. "Bring us down, John, this whole trip has been a waste."

John sighed and tugged lightly at the parachute valve, leaning in against the basket next to Sherlock, resting his elbows on the rim in a pretense of nonchalance while his fingers gripped at it tightly. As they made their slow descent towards the landing site, quite a bit higher and farther off course than the other balloons, John spied something off in the distance. "Um, Sherlock? You may want to see this."

At once, the detective was on his feet with a pair of binoculars and a telephoto lens. "So that's what the murderer didn't want seen!" He mentally calculated the coordinates of the dilapidated building and quickly jotted them into his smartphone, to visit by foot once they'd landed.


	143. Sliver

Sherlock had frozen in mid-stride as they paraded through one of the less busy streets of London, returning home after their repeat visit to the Art Gallery. He had been muttering softly as they walked, gesturing from hand to hand as he worked out the course of events they'd been following for the good part of a day. John kept a good meter or two of distance between himself and Sherlock, not wanting to give anything away with any facial expressions. He knew it was probably a hopeless cause, but why make it any easier on the genius? At least they were getting some sun. John gently nudged his elbow against each pole that passed between them, not paying as much attention as he might ordinarily.

When Sherlock suddenly stopped and spun on his heel, hurrying off back the way they'd just come, John was caught by surprise and reached out to grab the telephone pole he was about to nudge, using his momentum to swing around it and hurry after his partner. A sharp, hissing intake as John's palm dragged across the rough wooden surface brought Sherlock to a halt. He turned to see John inspecting his own fingertip before he dipped the pad into his mouth at an awkward angle, trying to use his teeth to pull out the sliver of wood which had intruded below the surface of the skin. Meeting no success, the doctor swore lightly and shook his hand in the chilled air as the pain started to throb around the intrusion.

Sherlock brought himself back over to John, the manufactured case instantly forgotten, as he pulled his utility knife from his pocket and slid the delicate tweezers from their sleeve in the side. He captured John's hand in his own firm grasp, and slowly and delicately tugged at the end of the splinter until it was freed. He tossed it aside and brought the finger closer for inspection, insuring no remnants were left behind. John shivered at the intimate gesture as Sherlock were to stuck the injured finger into his own mouth and ran his tongue over the puncture site to collect the small drop of blood which had pooled in the interim.


	144. Alibi

Greg and John exchanged glances briefly outside the door to the superintendant's office. Both men sported bloodshot eyes, Greg's dark and sunken in from stress and lack of sleep, John's sore and slightly crusty from the silent, private crying he'd only just managed to stifle for this appointment. A grave nod passed between them, and Greg pushed his way into the door, John following close behind.

A stern, bloated face greeted them with narrowed eyes, nearly hidden behind mountains of paperwork stacked on either side of the desk. Greg recognized the case files which he'd been requested to pull earlier that day... or had it been two days ago? The detective inspector found it remarkably harder to keep days apart when unconsciousness no longer helped to separate them. John eyed the names on the files wearily, recognizing the ones closer to the top as the cases he and Sherlock had helped with. The rest, judging by their dates, could only be the ones Sherlock had solved for the Yard before John had met him. Their pages were yellowing and dusty, and had probably not seen the light of day in years.

"Gentlemen, I'm sure you're both aware why we're here." The superintendant glowered at them each in turn, and they nodded bleakly. "But just for the record, let's restate the issue." He sighed and reached for the most recent case, shuffling it into order between his hands in the small surface of desk which was left clear before him. "Detective Inspector Lestrade has consulted on multiple occasions with a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes, who has either assisted in the resolution of numerous difficult cases, or has fabricated crimes and then been consulted to solve his own work. We are here to determine which." John detected a lip-curl of disdain in Greg's direction before the gaze softened slightly and turned to him. "Doctor Watson, you'll only be needed in reference to the most recent instances, of course. To provide an alibi for the cases preceding your involvement, I've been told to consult with one... Mycroft Holmes?"

John nodded and swallowed. "Yes, Mycroft has access to a vast network of various surveillance devices and other personal connections, which I'm sure he'll be more than willing to share in defense of his brother."

The superintendant cleared his throat. "Obviously it would be ideal if I had access to a more objective source, but from what I understand of the deceased, he had very few connections to more... reputable witnesses. I have on file one pathologist, one delinquent, and one street performer?"

John sighed and sunk his face into his hands. It was going to be a long night.


	145. Hallowed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is based on the fanfiction series called Fallen, in which John is Sherlock's guardian angel who has fallen from his status as such and become a Sensitive human. Go read it right now! http://archiveofourown.org/works/226432/chapters/343087

John longed to hold on to Sherlock in some way as the two stepped over the threshold, a cold shield of magic washing over them in a protective cleansing as they approached the hallowed sanctuary of the Dali Lama. They'd been on this case for two weeks, and it had been rough on both the Adept and the ex-angel. Sherlock had tried every trick in his books, spent ages in the library, consorted with the black market and his favorite pooka, and had even stooped so low as to resorting to Mycroft's expertise- which still had turned up nothing, but had provided this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for further research.

Sod it, John thought with a shiver, as he took two larger strides and curled his fingers in at the strap on the back of Sherlock's coat. John knew Sherlock needed the stability and companionship right now, as he was venturing into new and powerful territory. They were about to consult with the most spiritually-powerful man in the known world, and even Sherlock's non-Sensitive hairs were beginning to stand on end from the sheer magnitude of power surrounding them.

John kept his gaze on Sherlock's elbow as they arrived, averting his eyes from the holy avatar. It had been a long time since he'd been worthy of setting his sights on anyone of this caliber, and he wasn't about to try his luck now.


	146. Separate (Chameleon-based)

"Come on," Hope snarled as he pushed John into the elevator. "There's no use fighting any more, you're going to get on the plane and you'll be in Hawaii with Sebastian by this time tomorrow. We've got to separate you from Sherlock and get you bonded to the right Sentinel."  
"You can't. I won't," John snarled. He would have crossed his arms stubbornly if they hadn't been bound behind his back, roped securely into Hope's grasp.  
"You'll do what I say, young man, and you'll like it too. Given enough time." The elderly Guide jammed his finger against the button for the basement again, and as they passed the first floor where John knew they were keeping Sherlock's unconscious body, he could feel his pulse accelerate and suddenly he was straining against his bonds again.   
They passed down a second level below ground level, and John leaned in against the wall of the elevator in exhaustion. "Please," he begged, as though it would have a different effect on the heartless Guide this time, "I don't want to do this. I want to stay with Sherlock. He needs me, please!"  
Hope spat at John's feet. "Even if that were true, I'd gladly let him go insane as punishment for all the trouble you've put us through, Phantom." The doors opened and Hope tugged John to his feet. "Now let's get moving, your plane leaves in an hour."


	147. Corrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oneword didn’t give a new word today, so I asked for one from twitter. This prompt comes from Wolfteller.

Greg took a bite out of his scone and chewed amicably as he walked, one hand holding the fresh pastry as the other kept aloft the borrowed umbrella. He mulled over what Mycroft was telling him, slowly processing the information and comparing it to the last five years of experience.

“Surely you must have noticed some odd behaviors or choices?” The tall, impeccably-dressed official nonchalantly hung on every word of the DI, keeping his sights on their surroundings- the traffic, his cameras, the agents he had posted every other block, the activities of the civilians around him- anything but his present company, whose impression had taken on an inappropriate level of significance.

Greg tilted his head and swallowed down the starchy treat. “Well, now that you mention it, it’s a little strange how quickly the Chief seems to change his position- One week he’s very loose about rules, doesn’t care what you do as long as you get the job done. Next week it’s all about protocol, and the results can be damned.” He glanced up at his mysterious aquaintence, who was decidedly NOT looking at him no matter what thank-you-very-much, and sighed softly. “But that doesn’t mean they’ve all been corrupted and are taking bribes from who-knows-where, does it?” He nibbled at one of the crumbling edges about to break off.

Mycroft tucked his umbrella into the crook of his elbow and reached into his pocket, withdrawing two blackberry phones and typing simultaneously on them both with one hand. “Mmm, I don’t want to point fingers without more incriminating evidence.” He finally turned his head to narrow his eyes at Lestrade, a grim smile puckering his cheeks, “But DO keep a closer eye out for me from now on, hmm?” He inclined his head toward the street, where a black towncar was just pulling up. “My thanks for your cooperation, Detective, and I do believe your ride is here.” He held out his hand for the extra umbrella.

Greg sighed and relinquished it, climbing into the car with a frown as he gave the driver the address to his new flat. As though he didn’t already have enough to think about.


	148. Hearing

Sebastian scuffed his shoe against a mark on the granite floor, looking up as John emerged from the washroom. The sniper ran his eyes up and down along the doctor, checking for any last-minute fixups. He reached out and straightened John's tie a smidgen before clapping him on the shoulder. "You'll do fine, mate," he reassured his nervous friend, "If we can handle Afghanistan, you can handle one measly little hearing."

John chuckled, "Yeah, sure, but Afghanistan wasn't in front of a judge and audience!" He licked his lip, gaze falling somewhere past Seb's knee. "And somehow, it feels like more is at stake here. Silly, yeah? One man's honor, more important than an entire country?"

Sebastian only smiled grimly. "Depends on the man," he offered gently. It had been a rough few months, watching John work to undo everything that Jim had orchestrated. Almost everything, anyway. He couldn't undo the most important part.

Lestrade, flanked on both sides by very stern-looking lawyers, was ushered in to the courtroom, and exchanged nervous glances with John and Seb as he was rushed on by. A roar of intermittent chatter emerged as the doors opened, and a few flashbulbs went off. John cringed at the sight and steeled himself for a similar onslaught. A reassuring little push at the small of his back sent him in that direction. One last glance back, and Seb shot him a thumbs-up. "I'll be in the back, mate. Go knock 'em dead."


	149. Upright

Mycroft was gone for the day, probably off to pester the Prime Minister about Bulgaria, Sherlock had mused. He sighed softly with a relaxed smile and leaned back into the armrest of his brother's overstuffed couch, propping his feet up just a few inches short of Mrs. Hudson's thigh. She was soaking under the the reading lamp in the corner, her glasses propped up on her nose as she shared a companionable silence with friend and tenant. The two of them spent the afternoon reading; Mrs. Hudson slowly fingered her way down each page of a Victorian romance novel as Sherlock leafed through the pathology indexes of the river-borne species in various parts of Africa. 

The grandfather clock ticked steadily away from next to the kitchen, where John had just finished his lesson with the Holmes family culinary servants. He was just making note of the last few steps in a creole casserole recipe as he wandered into the sitting room to find Sherlock. One glance at the peaceful literary scene changed his mind, and he instead set about exploring the rest of Mycroft's mansion. The floorboards barely creaked as he snuck his way upstairs to the mysterious man's living quarters.

Before long, both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock looked up from their books at the tinkling sound of piano notes from the floor above. A few random keys, then a stroke down along the length, and John let his hand drop. He had been surprised to find the old upright stuffed into the corner of Mycroft's study. 

Firstly, that the older Holmes was a musician- though now that the doctor thought about it, he supposed they both would have been forced to learn an instrument at the same age. He wondered if Mycroft was as brilliant at it as his sibling. 

Secondly, that it was this little cherry-sided upright which adorned Mycroft's personal study. John would have expected a flashier display of wealth, perhaps a Steinway baby grand. Moving on to the next room, he put on his "Sherlock-cap" and puzzled about it as he vaguely toured his way through the grand staircases and personal galleries. The secluded location indicated that the piano was kept for personal reasons- sentimentality or privacy. Its keys were clean, so it likely was not devoid of use. John shook his head and promised himself he'd ask Sherlock about it later, why his brother wouldn't want anyone knowing about his musical habits.


	150. Nominated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is based on "Performance in a Leading Role," by MadLoki

John rolled over and curled his arm around Sherlock's diminutive waist, burying his cheek against the smooth pectorals. "I still can't believe I was nominated for an Oscar," he grinned down towards Sherlock's navel, the buzz of the telly washing over them both as the sun struggled to rise.  
Long, thin fingers combed through his hair, returning in the other direction with a gentle application of fingernail. "Believe it," Sherlock purred beneath him, wishing the birds would hold off on their infernal chirping for just one day.  
John arched his neck to look up at his partner, one leg curled up over his. "I mean, it's a bloody Oscar! Where do you go from there? What's left to do?"  
Sherlock smirked and leaned in to kiss and nibble gently at John's prolific nose. "Win, of course." He sincerely hoped John would win against him and of course, against Moriarty. He deserved the award the most. There would be plenty of chances for Sherlock to win in the future, but there wouldn't be any more for John if he didn't win this one. It was crucial.  
John hummed happily and toyed with Sherlock's navel, curling his toes in against the bony shins as he tried to calm himself enough to get another couple hours of sleep.


	151. Instrumental

John was relaxing at home with the radio on, windows thrown open to welcome in the rare glimpse of sunlight and gentle breezes. It was far past time to air out the stench of stale, rotted watermelon that had settled into every surface of the flat. Strains of a Beatles song drifted around him as he stretched out on the couch and let himself relax after a hard day at the surgery. Sherlock wandered out from his bedroom and tossed aside the handfull of baseball cards he'd been dusting for prints. He instead grabbed a thick textbook from the pile near the door and threw himself into his chair to dig into it. John rested peacefully as the music lulled him to sleep, each page turn gently articulating a new turn of phrase.

It was days later that John learned just how amazing Sherlock's memory was, at least in the department of music. He had been fiddling about with his violin for the better part of the day, throwing in a sonata here and a fugue there, sometimes taking the lead part of a major symphony while leaving the accompaniment to the imagination. John could only guess at what had brought about this melancholic mood, but was stopped straight in his contemplation when the little stringed instrument suddenly emitted something more familiar.

It began with broken arpeggios, the same ones that the radio had been playing the other day. They skipped within each chord, Sherlock's practiced fingers dancing along the neck to keep them in their proper incorrect order. The chords followed their familiar progression, finally culminating to a climax where Sherlock broke into an eye-watering vibrato of the highest part of the twelve-voice harmony. His eyes squinched closed for recollection, he perfectly replicated the song he had heard but once before, the instrumental arrangement imbuing it with a new meaning that John had never attributed to it previously. Between the ends of each melodic phrase, Sherlock continued to fill in the gaps with the arpeggios, ensuring a concrete stability of symphonic engagement. On the next verse, he switched to a different line of the harmony, and on the third time he found a way to play two strings in tandem, grasping at the final two parts simultaneously.

As the song wavered off into an unfulfilling ending, John released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Sherlock," he gasped, the steel-grey eyes snapping to meet his, "That was.... that was amazing! Bloody brilliant! I had no idea you could do Because with just one person."

Sherlock frowned slightly, trying to sort out John's words. "Because what?" Then he realized his mistake before John replied, "Oh, was that the name of the song? Dull." He shrugged the violin off his shoulder and set it lovingly back in its case as John gaped at him.

"Dull?!?" The doctor shook his head sadly, "Sherlock, for someone so musically inclined, you sure are ignorant about the most influential band in history."


	152. Tasting

John leaned over the back of the wheelchair and planted a kiss between Sherlock's curls. "You'll love this," he promised, pushing the previously bed-laden detective through the doors of a small convention center.

Ordinarily Sherlock would have come up with some snarky reply, but the topic on the sign genuinely did interest him, and it was SO good to be somewhere out and about and seeing something other than the ceiling for once. He knew to be on his best behavior, of course- one re-cracked limb would have the good doctor sentencing him to another month of bed rest.

The two made their way into the throng of enthusiastic apiarists and it was all Sherlock could do not to turn this way and that, taking it all in at once. John paused behind him and took a deep inhale, the air thick with a sweet, sticky scent and multiple conversations. Stripes of black and yellow flashed comically from nearly every surface, and several children went running by with giant bee puppets, chasing each other with a buzzing sound.  
Immediately Sherlock grabbed a schedule from the back pocket of an attendee, and propping it open on his cast-bound left arm, made a quick scan and inventory of the offered events. "John, let's go here," he pointed at the event on the third floor, scheduled to start in fifteen minutes. John nodded and pushed him through the crowd, which was happy to part for the injured gentleman.

They'd hardly gotten halfway to the elevators, however, when John stopped in his tracks. "We've got a few minutes to kill," he pleaded with Sherlock, "Let's check this out?"

The scientists rolled his eyes and assented, and soon they were both assaulted with enthusiastic welcomings; the honey salesmen were holding a tasting, and were eager to peddle their wares. Sherlock found himself surrounded with tiny plastic cups, each labeled with their relevant information and painted with a dob of amber liquid in the bottom. He and John immersed themselves in the process, overwhelmed with the variety and sweetness of the samples.

By the time the two were finished, Sherlock was nearly vibrating in his chair. "John, I had no idea that honey could be so drastically affected by the flower from which it came!" He turned back in afterthought, "Could you grab me one more each of the Bushels and Barrel's Clover-fed and the Karen's Butterfly Bush? I'd like to analyze the differences on a molecular scale." John only smiled and made the small errand, returning to set the samples on Sherlock's lap before they headed on to explore the rest of the convention.


	153. Shorthand

Before Sherlock died, the two flatmates rarely touched. John was withdrawn and still used to the homophobic atmosphere of the military. Sherlock was just as withdrawn, more concerned with clues and details than with people, even those most prominent in his life. Why put forth the effort?

After Sherlock died, that all changed. Small touches were exchanged between the two, a shorthand system of communication which they learned instinctively as they went along. A punch to the cheek was easy; “You’re an ass.” A gentle palm on the knee; “I’m sorry, forgive me, I need you.” A slow tracing along the cheekbone; “You’re actually real and not-dead.”

Time progressed, and the language between them grew as more vocabulary was added. A tug on the elbow; “Don’t leave me.” A quick squeeze of the thumb; “I’ll be back.” A chin on the shoulder; “Keep watch over me.” An arm around the waist; “I will, now and forever.” A gentle grip at a tense shoulder; “Ignore him, he means you harm, I’m with you.” A nudge with an elbow; “Be nice.” A subtle lean into a flank; “Thank you for your company.” A rub copied after a self-inflicted one; “Are you in pain?” A thumb across the ribs; “I wish you would eat more.”

Time marched on, and while old phrases rarely went out of usage, the overall nature of the language began to change. An inhale against a neck; “You’re mine and no one else’s.” A kiss behind the ear; “I missed you.” Even simpler phrases gained their own codes- a nuzzle under a jawbone became “Good morning.” A two-handed tug at the hips; "I want you." A hug around a thigh; "I love you." If the time-tested couple seemed unusually silent to onlookers, it would only be because they were not privy to the unspoken language shared between them.


	154. Outgoing

John figured Mycroft must have disconnected Sherlock's phone after his death. It was a likely explanation as to why John's messages never went from the "Outgoing" folder of his phone to the "Sent" folder, as though they were stuck up somewhere in the signal-laden atmosphere, floating around eternally as they tried to get to their recipient. He was somewhere even beyond their reach.

Even still, John couldn't bring himself to delete them. Each one felt almost like a prayer, more concrete than anything he could ever say to that cold tombstone. The messages to no-one were like a private blog on a private subject, no less effective at helping the abandoned doctor come to terms with his feelings. Every so often he would pass the time by going through them, always figuring that if something ever changed, if one of them no longer held true, he would delete it.

18 Jan 2012, 20:43  
I don't know how, but I know this is fake. Stop this. Come home.

19 Jan 2012, 09:12  
Goddamnit Sherlock, whatever you think you're trying to prove, this isn't the way to do it. Come home already.

30 Jan 2012, 10:24  
I really hope there's a good reason for this. Even if there's not, that's okay. I hope you're sitting out there somewhere, having a good laugh. Just as long as you're not dead. Come back please.

30 Jan 2012, 10:25  
I need you.

05 Feb 2012, 12:46  
I met up with an old friend from the Army today, you might have liked him. He's even more handy with a gun than I am. I hope you come back soon so you can meet him.

12 Mar 2012, 21:23  
I miss you. The city misses you. Lestrade misses you. I'd say your brother misses you, but I haven't talked to him. You should see the graffiti, Sherlock, we all believe in you. I just wish you were here to be believed in.

04 May 2012, 07:12  
Mrs. Hudson had a break-in just now, I only just got to her in time. Dunno what I'd do if I lost both of you.

15 Jun 2012, 23:40  
I don't like to believe that you're actually dead, you know. My leg hurts an awful lot these days. If you're out there somewhere, please come back.

30 Aug 2012, 22:30  
I almost went a whole day without thinking of you. Glad I didn't.

25 Dec 2012, 19:13  
Merry Christmas, Sherlock. Wherever you are.

15 Jan 2013, 14:30  
I never thought I'd make it a whole year without you.

Sherlock returned shortly thereafter, and it was a swirling rush of emotions and action and re-adjustment. By the time it all settled down and John remembered about his "private blog," Molly had already re-connected Sherlock's mobile and John found his Outgoing box had emptied itself into the air. "Erm, Sherlock?" The detective quirked his eyebrow, but didn't look up from unpacking the boxes full of lab equipment that John had stored in his empty room. The doctor floundered for a second, trying to find his wording. "Did you er... receive some messages from my phone?"

"Hrm? Oh, yes." He flicked a sparker to test his favorite Bunsen burner before setting it on the kitchen table. "I got several from you, Mycroft, and my homeless network. I deleted them."

John wasn't sure if Sherlock was referring simply to his phone's memory or to his own rigidly-structured hippocampus. He let it go, rather than press the issue and risk further awkwardness in an already-tense atmosphere.


	155. Primitive

The case was only a level six, but John had begged Sherlock to take it because it was the bloody ZOO and he hadn't been since primary school. Before he knew it, Sherlock found himself wandering between exhibits and trying not to flood himself with the information contained on the hundreds of people surrounding them. The case was to do with the disappearance of a rare, valuable parrot, and Sherlock had a good lead within four minutes, but the look on John's face as he pressed his palms against the glass of the polar bear enclosure was too priceless to interrupt. Soon the two city boys were staring unabashedly at a pair of gorillas, going at it energetically in the middle of their jungle gym.

"Primitive creatures," Sherlock sneered, as John tried not to giggle, "All they can think about is eating, fighting, and fucking."

John rolled his eyes and leaned in gently against Sherlock's side. "You know, we have those same instincts too. The pons is a vestigial structure, present in humans, gorillas, reptiles... basically anything with a brain stem."

Sherlock looked affectionately down at his doctor. "I'll acknowledge having one," he growled softly, "But that doesn't mean I have to listen to it."

"Oh, I dunno," John smiled up at him as he squeezed gently at a finger, "Sometimes it can be fun to just give in and let the ol' reptile brain take over for a bit." He considered for a second, letting the imagery sink in, "Maybe I'll show you sometime."


	156. Primitive attempt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t quite happy with my first attempt at “Primitive,” because it wasn’t what I originally had in mind, and came out quite quickly and forced at the last minute. Instead, here’s a scene I’ve been wanting to write for a long time.

John's responses had always been rather predictable. It was easy to get his blood pounding, Sherlock found. Usually even a simple night spent together would easily have the doctor wound up by the time the sun crept in, with his morning wood pressed in firm and warm against Sherlock's backside as heartily as if he were a pent-up teenager. Now that Sherlock had shouldered the burden of this last need, he often felt guilt if it seemed John was pent-up in this way.

So it was with alarmingly increasing frequency that Sherlock found himself grinding gently back against John's front, or flipping onto his side to toy beneath John's pajamas with a few lithe fingers. Combined with a fair amount of kissing, this was usually more than enough to stir the more primitive physical responses and it was rarely long before Sherlock found himself pinned beneath a horny, needy, demanding soldier.

Sherlock's arousal, like many qualities about him, was slightly more complicated. Try as John might, any grinding or stroking would only relax the detective into a contented, receptive state. He would stretch out and arch into the attention greedily, but would be no more needy than prior to the attempt.

As the curious scientist worked to quantify his erotic response, the only sound conclusion he could come to was that he was turned on by John... being turned on by him. This was reason for pause. Sherlock wondered if this phenomenon was common, in normal, healthy, loving relationships, and this was simply the first time he had had the opportunity to experience it. On first inspection, Sherlock had to admit to himself that the response was probably linked to his poor self-image. If John, a self-proclaimed heterosexual, could find him desirable enough to be so hopelessly aroused by his company, then surely he must have some redeeming factors after all. If not aesthetic, then perhaps at least personal?

New data was put into the equation, however, when Sherlock found himself half-pinning John to the bed with one shoulder as he assaulted his mouth with his tongue, fingertips teasing gently along the doctor's length, eliciting soft, whimpered pleading for more. A shiver went along the detective's spine, and Oh, suddenly he was in control- a cool head directed his hand as he applied a tighter grasp and John writhed beneath him, riding close to the edge and begging for release. Sherlock found it very easily within his ability to grant John his wish or to leave him wanting.

"God, Sherlock," he panted softly as he gripped at the sheets, "You have got me SO-" his words were cut off in a rushed moan as Sherlock leaned in with a deep, throaty growl and pressed in firmly under the flushed head, his thumb and palm suddenly slick. On a gut reaction, his hand flew to himself, and Sherlock was surprised to find that he'd somehow become even more aroused than usual. Then before Sherlock knew what was happening, John had tugged on his elbow and he'd clambered over his broader hips, and somewhere deep in his head the little reptile brain was egging him on as he rutted for friction against John's belly, leaning in to sink his first bite against his doctor's clavicle.

It was only minutes later, as Sherlock rolled off to recover from the blast of hormones coursing through him, that he took stock once more of the nature of their relationship. That had certainly been... interesting.

"Told you you'd like it," John grinned at him smugly.


	157. Luggage

The boys shuffled in from the taxi, their newly-tanned skin a stark contrast to the bleak, grey sky outside. Sherlock immediately dropped their luggage once he was across the threshold, and tromped up the stairs. John followed with a weary sigh and sank onto the ouch to decompress from their long, exhausting trip to India. It had been a curious case, involving a live snake as a murder weapon. It had somehow been trained to attack a victim on command, its venom potent enough to leave them dead within seconds. The most terrifying part had been realizing that the murderous reptile had been hidden in the ceiling of the crime scene the whole time, having wound its way up the exposed pipes of the primitive plumbing system. It was only thanks to John's quick draw that the snake retreated into a crack in the wall, leaving behind a smoking hole in the floorboards and a near-rattled Sherlock whose veins were thankfully untainted.

Now that the mystery was solved and the Indian police knew what they were looking for, Sherlock had bid them goodbye and the two had headed home.

John was interrupted from his blogging just as he was about to wrap it up. A scream from downstairs brought the boys rushing back down to 221A, where Mrs. Hudson was doing battle with a small speckled swamp adder. Sherlock's suitcase lay open in the hallway- it appeared the land lady had gotten a nasty surprise when she'd attempted to sneak a bag of cookies in to put the meat back on Sherlock's bones. By the time John got to her, Mrs. Hudson had her intruder backed into a corner of her sitting room, bashing at its head with her broom.


	158. Lending

John cringed as yet another book went flying across the room and smacked into the wall near the heavy metal door, bouncing dully off the pale hospital wallpaper to join the pile of its fallen comrades, pages crumpled and abused. Sherlock grunted softly, and John wasn't sure if it was from the painful exertion put into the task, or from the accompanying boredom. With a despondent sigh, the invalid reached for the stack of books on the end table beside him and snatched up the next one, delving into it with the deepest of frowns.

"You know, the library probably won't keep lending you books if you keep sending them back in such poor condition."

Sherlock pointedly ignored him. Too much of even the best company could be grating on the nerves, and Sherlock had been stuck in this cursed hospital bed for three days and nine hours too long. He knew himself well enough to keep his mouth shut, lest he wound John with the mental products of his frustration.

John sighed and let his head hang for a bit before his neck tensed up and he was forced to lean back and stretch it out. "Sherlock," he muttered, "It won't always be this bad. The retirement, I mean. You'll heal up and get back on your feet, and find something to do." He brought his elbows back down to his knees as Sherlock flipped roughly to the next page, barely containing the sneer of derision. "But you ARE going to have to get used to the idea of entertaining yourself."

The doctor scooted his chair forward until his knees were pressed against the plastic frame of the bed, and laid his hand on Sherlock's arm-cast. "I mean it, you know. No more murderers. No more weapons. No more putting yourself in danger." He stared intently at the pale cheekbone until Sherlock turned to meet his gaze, eyes blanched of all color by the fluorescent lighting. "Not all good puzzles need to be life-threatening."

"Yes, you've asserted this opinion three and a half times before now." He turned back to the page at hand, fingers curling in against the worn leather cover to keep it propped upright with one hand. "We will see. I make no promises."

John sighed and leaned in to plant a kiss on Sherlock's crown. He knew that was as good as he was going to get at the moment.


	159. Disregard- Winglock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I kinda fell off the boat for a week, guys! I'll try to do roughly two prompts a day now until I get all caught up. This one is a combination of Oneword.com, and a winglock picture which cachopasart posted on Tumblr with a request for fic of it.

John pressed the warm compress gently against the shallow cut, letting the fresh blood soak in and away from Sherlock's pale skin. The detective was hunched over his own knees, lower lip held between his teeth as he tried not to flinch away from the doctor's touch. The water matted down the topmost feathers, turning the deep blue a dark, iridescent black which sent shivers along the wing from the cool air.

"You knew there was a storm coming." John sighed as he wrung out the washcloth and re-wet it, pressing it back against the cut. "You could have waited until it passed." He dabbed a bit of hydrogen peroxide into the cut and let it fizz.

Sherlock grunted softly, fingers clenched into a fist. "And miss the opportunity to catch Burke? Not likely. I'll gladly disregard minor danger when it comes to the work." He turned back to inspect John's work. "You know that."

John bit his tongue and reached for a bandage, trying to figure out how to apply it. The field of orni-anthro medicine was not his specialty, though he'd picked up quite a bit since moving in with the mysterious, winged detective. "Erm, Sherlock," he murmured tentatively, "I need to cover this to keep it sanitized. It looks like I'll have to pluck a few of the little coverts here to clear a surface area for the adhesion." The concerned doctor squeezed comfortingly at the lean, wiry bicep muscles and the wing drooped a little in his grasp as Sherlock let his head hang.

"If you must," he sighed. He'd long since stopped protesting John's medical expertise. He reached out to John's chair and brought the Union Jack pillow to his chest, fingers digging into it with each little feather that made its way to the floor by John's feet.


	160. Insect

Sherlock jimmied the lock open after only a couple minutes as John kept watch down the flat's hallways for the victim's neighbors. Dr. Roscigno lived in an old but well-maintained building filled with professors and other scientists, each with their own specialty. Sherlock was certain it was a very intimate communal setting, and their strange presence would be unusual at best. Sherlock's lockpicking skills paid off yet again, and the two were admitted in without calling unnecessary attention, just as John was beginning to panic at the set of footsteps coming up the stairs.

They quickly shut the door behind themselves, and John had to suppress a full-body shudder and a gag reflex as he turned back around to purvey the victim's quarters. The walls and shelves and even the table and counters were all lined with specimens, preserved and pinned and jarred and labeled. Their legs curled in on their segmented bodies, and John closed his eyes and tried not to hyperventilate. "Why did it have to be bugs," he whined, "Why couldn't it have been birds, or dandelions, or something pleasant?"

Sherlock ignored him and began digging through Roscigno's notes, searching for a motive as to why he might have been shot down. 

John sighed and opened his eyes, keeping his vision squarely focused on the hem of Sherlock's coat. "I swear to god, if I see another bloody camel spider, you'll be on your own for this." He crossed his arms uncomfortably across his chest and took a step away from the door.

"You won't," Sherlock murmured as he thumbed through research journals, "A spider isn't an insect, it wouldn't be a part of Dr. Roscigno's field." He set the book down and delved into a manilla folder. "Besides, spiders are messy and disorganized, not neatly segmented by function like insects are. Dull." He handed another folder back to John, continuing his work when it was taken.

John wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, but found the notes and diagrams interesting enough. He couldn't help drawing an analogy to his flatmate, who seemed to be able to segment himself by function as well- one part of the brain for each division, not all tangled up in a mess like any ordinary person.

John wondered if that made himself the arachnid. Another shudder ran down his spine at the thought.


	161. Romance

John sighed and eyed the coffee warily. So far, so good. His sister was on her best behavior, remarkably sober and level-headed, and had not (yet) slipped anything into her drink. The Watsons sat at a small table in the empty shop, conspiring over their brews as the barista leaned against the counter and ignored them with a loud pop of her gum. John brought his mug to his lips and savored the hearty aroma for a minute, patiently allowing Harry time to approach her reason for meeting. A sip or two later, and he was not disappointed.

"Clara called me today," she murmured, staring forlornly down into the opaque brown liquid. "After three and a half years. Said she missed me, that things would be different."

John hummed non-commitally, eyebrows raised a bit. Harry ran a hand through her strawberry blonde bangs, eyes searching the matching ones across the table. She winced softly at her own words even as she spoke them.

"We're not getting any younger, John. Maybe... I dunno, maybe it's time to put old quarrels aside and settle down again?" She sighed and crossed her legs in the other direction. "I mean, I dunno about you, but I don't fancy bein' alone for the rest of m'life."

John cleared his throat and let his mug sink to the table. "Cor, Harry, I'm really not the right person to ask about romance. I mean, I can't even tell my flatmate I fancy him, 'cause of COURSE he already knows, and it wouldn't make a lick of difference- I just had to go and fall into place with a bloody machine!" He met her gaze again and hardened his frown into a grimace of resolve. "If Clara is your best option at the moment, why NOT give it another go?"

Harry sighed and let her head tilt to the side to land in her palm. "You're right. Of course you're right, I don't even know what I'm so torn up about. Just stupid pride, I guess."

The two sipped at their coffee for a while longer and chatted about older, more familiar subjects. Who was having whom over for the holidays, what should they get Mum, would she ever give up on grandkids... John was only reminded again how little he had in common with his own sister. He polished off his mug and returned it to the barista, who barely registered him in her field of existence. John returned to the table and shrugged his jacket on. Harry stood to depart alongside him, her resolve set to visit Clara and try to patch things up.

"You shouldn't worry so much," she told him with a squeeze at his arm as they parted ways outside the shop, "He's been very good for you. I can see it in the way you type and speak and walk. Just let him be himself, I'm sure it will turn out alright on its own." John nodded curtly at his sister and hailed a cab back home.


	162. Backspace

**The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson**  
 _23 May, 2036_

_To my friends, colleagues, clients, and fans, it is with deep sorrow I announce-_

John sighed, squinting at the screen, noticing in the reflection for the third time that month just how deep his crow's feet were getting. He held down the backspace button for two seconds and tried again.

_It is with weary relief and joyous celebration that I announce the end of the Sherlock Holmes consulting and private detective company._

John leaned back against the old blue couch they'd had moved from the flat, and took a moment to savor the occasional contributions of a song thrush and a reed warbler, rushing to beat their neighbors to the first songs of the day. It was a pleasant change from the car horns and bus engines.

_Sherlock and I are getting on in age, and the various occupational injuries we've sustained over the years are compounding and taking a toll on our frames. It will be with a heavy heart that I oversee the withdrawal of a unique skill set from the access of the general public, but everyone deserves to be able to retire someday, right?_

Sherlock wandered in from the bedroom, the curved bottom of his walking cast causing the old floorboards to protest as he curled his right arm around John's shoulders, reading over the entry in progress as his chin dug into the white-sand hair.

_Those of you with any familiarity with Sherlock will know that this is a tough decision to make. It will be a strange transition, going from a life of excitement and mystery to one of peaceful rest and domestic bliss. Even now, I'm sure his lip is curling as he imagines applying that phrase to himself._

John looked up and chuckled; surely enough Sherlock's face displayed a passive mask of dismay. He reached up and gave the fingers a squeeze, running his thumb over the knuckles which were starting to protrude with age before he continued on.

_Under these circumstances, we will be more than happy to consult on any interesting puzzles you may come across. Any which will require "legwork," as Sherlock's brother would call it, however, will have to be delegated the youngsters who have taken up the calling in Sherlock's and my footsteps._

Sherlock patted at John's shoulder and hobbled into the kitchen to put the kettle on. A creak of the chair against the linoleum floor and the soft turning of wafer-thin pages told the old veteran that his partner was thumbing through that apiary catalogue again, deciding on which hives to set up and how many, and from where he wanted the young queen sent.

_Fortunately, I believe we may have found something with which to occupy his attention out here in the country. At least, partially, that is, as his massively superior intellect can never be fully diverted to any one thing, of COURSE. It still has a bit of an element of danger, though he doesn't seem to think so. I suppose it is nothing, compared to what we've seen the last fifteen years._

John frowned slightly as Sherlock gingerly took his left arm out of the sling and slowly worked it around a bit. At least he was keeping up with his recovery quite nicely, hopefully the screws wouldn't slow him down too much.

_Don't mean to be mysterious, but first let's see if this new hobby really does manage to stick around without him getting bored of it in a month. With any luck, you'll be seeing some drastic changes around this site. Don't worry, I'll still keep all the old cases in an archive somewhere, for you youngsters out there taking notes._

_No longer entirely yours,_

_John H. Watson, MD_

John published the entry he'd been mentally drafting for ages, and joined Sherlock for breakfast.


	163. Base

John leaned happily against Sherlock's shoulder and let out a contented sigh as the latest episode of his new favorite drama drew to a close. The snowflakes outside wouldn't have been visible in the dark, had they not each been three centimeters each in diameter. Sherlock had given a scientific explanation for the strange snow-clusters, but John had already forgotten it. Not important, as the two were perfectly shielded by the walls of the flat and the blankets on the couch, and John's newest Christmas jumper which Sherlock had given him. (Dark green with baubles, which always elicited a flash of mirth in the grey-but-sometimes-green eyes)

John curled an arm around Sherlock's waist as he let out the deep breath he'd taken, and felt the tension in his core dissipating as Sherlock returned the gesture. Chilled, clammy fingers teased their way up under John's untucked undershirt, and he hummed amicably and tried not to shiver from the contrast. He stroked slowly at Sherlock's side, gently drawing him in closer, and grasped at the silk blue dressing gown in surprise as his first epidural layer was broken with a playful scritching down his back.

John turned in to face Sherlock better, curling his second arm up around his chest as he leaned in for a kiss. Had he been paying more attention, he might have been alerted to the focused, narrow eyes. Two sets of fingernails now teased their way down to base of John's spine, and it was all the poor doctor could do not to crush Sherlock's ribs with the strength of the reflexive shudder, linked with the sensitive spot just above his arse.

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured against John's lips, "Was that completely involuntary?" John's silent blush confirmed the detective's theory, and sent him searching for other unusual reflex linkages along the soldier's vertebrae. John tried to regulate his breathing and hoped Sherlock didn't mind how how strongly his interest was causing John's body to respond. Wouldn't do to display unwanted attention, after all. John curled his fingers into the fabric at the small of Sherlock's back, holding on as tightly there as he was holding himself back. There would be plenty of chances to indulge out there in the real world, this was not the time nor place.


	164. Pile

The sun beat down overhead and perpetuated the infinite expanse of flat land and dry, crumbling, ruined buildings. John rested in the shade, hunched over against the weight of his pack as he kept his gaze focused grimly on the entrance to the village. A chirp to his left alerted him to another of those nasty camel spiders, and he stomped at it with his heavy combat boot. It skittered away under the rubble. Geoffrey, across the street and hunched behind a truck, flashed him a smirk. John was in the process of lifting his two forefingers in response, when suddenly the ground burst to pieces just twenty feet south of their position.

Gunfire broke out all around the troupe, and John scrambled across the road for better cover, Geoffrey not far behind. The two darted into one of the buildings, where they'd agreed on as a meeting point. "Move, move MOVE!" John screamed at his troupe, and the five men who had managed to make it so far followed him as he leapt out the back door and bolted for the trench they'd set up outside the boundaries of the village.

The dust continued to leap up at them, biting at their ankles, and Rogers cried out in pain behind John but continued to run. John motioned them all forward and paused to check behind them, firing off a few warning shots at their head-dressed pursuers. They continued their advance on his men, so John kneeled to take aim, and with a steady breath, took out the kneecaps of the two frontmost attackers. The others faltered and shot back, their aim poor and untrained.

John ran and dove into the trench, panting heavily amongst his men as he formulated a plan of defense. They were exhausted, a sweaty pile of dust creatures who could hardly be distinguished from each other but for the red spot of blood seeping out of Rogers' side. John pulled his med kit from the bunker and hoped to god the locals wouldn't follow them here.


	165. Unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's another Chameleon-based one, and the prompt comes from "Maud," a lovely anon from fanfiction.net

John leaned against the outer wall of the Tower, waiting uncomfortably near the door as he waited for Sherlock. They'd just finished their latest case, and the consulting sentinel was eager for more work. The Tower was a reliable place to occupy one's self, even if the cases weren't always as interesting. John sighed and closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the city wash over him as he tugged affectionately at his inner bond to the man several stories above him. While the doctor usually went everywhere with Sherlock, he'd stayed outside in this instance. Too many unpleasant memories that he wasn't as able to suppress in himself as he was in Sherlock.

A heavy pair of footsteps stopped just on their way in the door. "Well I'll be," growled a familiar voice, "If it isn't the old Phantom, back at the Tower." John raised his head to squint up at Sebastian, who seemed to be trying to mask a sneer as a smile.

"Colonel Moran, hello." John gave him a curt nod and crossed his arms across his chest. "Still unbonded?"

Sebastian snorted. "No, I got me a guide finally, no thanks to you. Clever little thing, he is. Probably even moreso than you and your precious freak of a Sentinel." He whisked his way into Tower, and John squinted after him. The militant Sentinel's wolverine growled from somewhere in the shadows, then scampered after its human. John could just barely make out the wispy traces of what looked like spider's silk running along the length of the spirit guide's fur, unseen until it ran through the sunlight. John shivered and tried not to think about the sort of Guide whose spirit guide would be a spider. Or for that matter, the sort of Guide who would bond with Sebastian Moran.


	166. Calling

Sherlock stood calmly as the policeman behind the counter went through his evidence, becoming more and more flabbergasted with each gruesome photo he uncovered from the manilla file.

"You'll find that any investigations which may still be ongoing are doing so in the completely incorrect direction," the young man drawled coolly from the oversized coat, hands tucked firmly into the pockets. "As you can see from the evidence I've gathered, the missing poodle did not simply run away from home. She was dognapped by a fellow Crufts competitor, and then killed during an armed robbery by another."

The poor policeman had turned white. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I thought it would be appropriate to alert the authorities." This seemed to snap the poor chap out of his horrific daze, and he stumbled out of his chair and tried not to run to the back of the office.

Not a minute later, Sherlock found himself staring down one Sergeant Lestrade, a newlywed with high aspirations, the patience of a saint, and premature peppering of grey, inherited from his mother's side. This was Sherlock's first attempt at this since the Carl Powers incident, and he wanted to make a solid first impression. Presenting his evidence again to the new face, he made sure to keep any subjectivity, emotion, or vulnerability hidden from his inflections. He was certain that had been the issue last time, an apparent bias.

Lestrade found himself blinking owlishly at this strange lad before him, hardly out of Uni, who discussed the bloody deaths of a poodle and two handlers as calmly and impassively as if he were commenting on current events. Greg did his best to keep up with the swift train of logic being driven past his ears, and immediately sent his team to the locations suggested by the boy. Setting his phone down, he thanked Sherlock softly and made a swift retreat back to his office.

Sherlock contained his grin until he'd hailed a cab back to the Holmes residence. Mummy had been hoping he would find his calling, and now he could tell her the good news. Maybe wipe that smug, concerned look off his brother's face the next time he asked.


	167. Quest

John sighed determinedly and paced quickly after the store clerk who seemed to be trying to escape his notice without seeming as though she were. "Excuse me!" John called after her, and she reluctantly turned and tried to plaster on a smile.

"How may I help you, sir?" A strand of her ginger hair had flown away from the others, and she shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, as though she hadn't seen a chair in hours. John hated to disrupt her mad dash for the break room, but he didn't have the patience to search through yet another superstore on his bizarre quest, only to come away empty-handed.

He winced sheepishly even as the question left his throat, "Does this store carry live cockroaches? You know, the giant hissing ones?" Her face contorted into the amusing, disgusted expression that had met John's request at almost every other location. He sighed, "I'll take that as a no."

The weary veteran turned to leave, and she called after him, "Did you try the pet store three blocks east?"

He nodded and pushed his way out the front doors. "They were all out for the month," he called back. John sighed and made his way back to the pet store, weary of what he was sure would be a futile search.

An hour later, Sherlock peered over the top of his microscope as John nearly tossed the small plastic container onto the table next to him. "One dozen crickets," he huffed, "And that will just have to do. I don't want to hear another word about it."

Sherlock held his tongue and let the poor doctor go have a sit. No need to tell him it was a moot point by now, as he'd been fortunate enough to catch one of the smaller roaches which refused to vacate 221C, and it had served the purposes of his dissection perfectly fine. He leaned back into the microscope and wondered what he might be able to use the crickets for.


	168. Monitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be Sherlock behind his monitor originally, but then I thought of the second meaning, which could really only apply to Mycroft.

Anthea was just about to leave work for the night when she noticed a soft blue light coming from Mycroft's office. Curious, she tiptoed down the hallway and poked her head in. Sure enough, there was her new boss, exactly where she'd left him earlier that day. "Sir, you haven't moved an inch since this afternoon, have you?" She leaned in and let her elbow rest on his desk, and he glanced up to meet her gaze, his irises blanched a steel grey from the ambient light of his monitor.

"You'll find that when it comes to situations like our current one, I tend to become quite fixated until a solution is found. Family curse, I'm afraid." He tapped away at his keyboard, swiveling the CCV cameras across the whole of the city to keep a watchful eye on the suspects in question. It was going to be a long night before they revealed their meeting location. "Could you bring me a cup of coffee on your way out?"

Anthea sighed and changed her direction at the last minute, turning toward the kitchen instead of the elevator. She shook her head once again. It was good that her workaholic of a superior had conceded to hiring her, at least. He really was doing the work of a whole proper team, all by himself. It was a wonder he hadn't run himself ragged, trying to monitor every criminal activity in the entire city of London, in addition to his troublemaker of a brother.


	169. Lodge

By the time Sherlock and John left from the bed and breakfast for the second morning in a row, the police had arrived on the scene of the country club to rope off the pool and start a formal investigation. Sherlock waited impatiently behind the police lines, pacing back and forth between John and the corner as the body was dredged from the chlorinated water. Sherlock knew the chemicals would have severely damaged the tissue, but there still might be particulates or other evidence, if he could just get to it!

Another scream, this time from the great lodge, interrupted Sherlock's grumpy train of thought. A cleaning maid in her late thirties rushed out from the front door and vomited over the railing, into the prim and proper garden. John rushed to her side to comfort her, and Sherlock stormed past into the lodge to see what she was reacting to. Another maid had sunk into the large armchair by the fireplace, her face blanched pale as she tried admirably to NOT stare at the charred finger on the floor.

Sherlock grinned and rushed over, pulling on a pair of gloves to pluck it from the ashes scattered on the floor to inspect it. "I swear, I was just cleaning out from last night's fire!" The poor maid seemed hysterical and Sherlock idly wondered if she might hyperventilate. He instead pulled his magnifying glass out and scrutinized the severed end of the finger. It was cleanly cut. He kicked gently through the ashes on the floor, then those remaining in the fireplace. A few human teeth rolled out onto the carpet, and the remainder of the onlookers from the country club cleared the room.

John returned to Sherlock's side, having done all he could for the startled maids, and ran a quick sweep over what Sherlock had found so far. "Oh god," he murmured, "You don't think someone was cremated here?"

Sherlock shook his head, "This fireplace isn't capable of getting that hot, would have to be at least eight hundred seventy degrees." He scratched gently at the surface of one of the teeth, and the soot came away to leave the enamel looking quite white and new. "No, I think these were planted here to make the more brainless country club members THINK someone else died here. They're trying to scare them."

"But why-"

"Money, if I had to fathom a guess. Rich people always think they can solve their problems with money; doubly so when they're afraid." John said nothing about either the way this statement might apply to Sherlock's family, nor about the tooth he had tucked into his pocket just as they turned to depart the scene.


	170. Retrieve

Sherlock pounded the table next to the victim's laptop in frustration, making the glasses and test tubes rattle dangerously. John peered up at him in concern, the page in his file stuck mid-turn. Sherlock sighed heavily as he let his head sink into his hands, fingers combing through the curls before clenching tightly. "I've tried every trick I know," he growled, either to John or at the stubborn machine, "But I think I'm going to need to consult another expert."

John raised his eyebrow, saved the page he was on, and set the file down. "Yeah? Where to?"

Sherlock sat in silence for a moment more as he made up his mind, then whirled into action, nearly toppling his kitchen chair as he stood suddenly. Grabbing his coat, he paused momentarily to ensure John was following, and rushed downstairs with the laptop under his arm, using the other to hail the nearest taxi.

Not long after, the two clambered out of the cab and up two flights of stairs of a pristine block of flats. "I texted him on the way," Sherlock filled John in, "But he probably won't have received it. His walls are built to prevent signals from going through." They reached the door which seemed to be their destination, and Sherlock let the knocker fall twice. "Bertold," he called loudly enough to be heard through the door, "It's Sherlock, I've got something for you."

No less than three locks were undone before the door cracked open under a security chain, and a bespectacled eye squinted out at them. "Who's your friend?"

John straightened his posture. "Doctor John Watson." He nodded at Sherlock, "His flatmate."

The door closed to undo the chain, then flew open, and John found his hand clasped between sweaty palms. "Doctor Watson, a pleasure! I read your blog religiously. I should have guessed." John could see Sherlock rolling his eyes in the corner of his vision. Bertold Gruetz, one ex-engineer from MIT, escorted them into his... John found he had no choice but to call it a lair. The three settled in before the largest configuration of displays, as Sherlock opened the foreign laptop for Bertold.

"There's a very important collection of files I need to you retrieve," he explained, "They've been hidden under too many layers of deletion and subroutine, it's beyond my practical level of ability. I'm certain you're up to the task."

Bertold nodded, the glow of the screens obscuring his eyes as it reflected over his lenses. "Sounds like a piece of cake. Leave it here with me, I should have it cracked by the end of the day." Sherlock wrote the hypothesized names of the files down, as well as their specifications, and tucked a twenty-pound note into the folded paper.

The two exchanged pleasantries, to the extent that any highly specialized genius with no interest in such would do so, and soon Sherlock and John were off to follow another lead to pass the time. "I really should spend more time with Bertold," Sherlock mused to John as they strolled briskly through the streets to their next destination, "After all, he did teach me that location-proximity-texting trick. I do owe him for that."


	171. Leading - (A Cure For Boredom)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is based on Emma Grant's AU!

It was Wednesday afternoon that John made the mistake of musing out loud that he might like to get a puppy. The paper had advertised a litter of five purebred bulldogs, going cheap. The poor doctor had been cooped up all week, with no visits to the club and no case to work on. A dog might make for good company when his crazy flatmate/boyfriend was too crazy to pay attention to him. Little did John know that Sherlock was paying attention to his musings, despite not visually registering the idea. The culture of penicillin had been growing for an optimal time period, and pausing to chat now would ruin the experiment.

It was Thursday evening that John woke up from his mid-day nap (gathering strength for a long night at the club) to find that his neck had been adorned with a dark blue leather collar during his period of unconsciousness. "Sherlock," he growled up at the detective, who was just buttoning up his coat in preparation of the visit, "What the hell is this?"

"It's a collar, John."

The doctor rolled his eyes and just barely caught the flash of a smirk in the full-length mirror as Sherlock tied his scarf. His gaze fell to his own neck as he tilted his head to examine the new adornment. He had to admit to himself, it did look rather fetching. (He mentally winced at the pun.) "Sherlock," he tried again, "I said I wanted to HAVE a puppy, not to BE a puppy."

Sherlock turned to face him and lifted an eyebrow. "Really, John? After all we've tried, THIS is where you draw the line?" He paused and crossed his arms. "Take it off, if you're so uncomfortable with trying something new. We'll stop tonight." He paused for a good long moment, frozen with one eyebrow perched near his hairline. John's hands ran through his sandy bedhead as he sighed defeatedly, but they strayed nowhere near the buckle. "I thought so. Get dressed at once, we've got an appointment to make in an hour."

The taxi ride seemed longer than usual. John tried to tell himself he was imagining the heat, the stickiness of the leather against his neck, the need to reach up and adjust it. The cool air between the road and the front door to the club was a welcome relief. The silver chain-link lead attached to the collar just inside the front door was not.

Room six was occupied when they arrived. Lana, the domme who had started this whole fiasco those crazy months ago, awaited them impatiently. She had already shed her tight latex garment and was lounging comfortably in her knickers and bra, a brilliant blue color which almost matched the collar Sherlock had picked out (to match John's eyes). Somewhere in the forgotten parts of John's mind he wondered if that was intentional. His more active parts were VERY active, scanning her exposed form and sending signals to yet other parts.

"Why Sherlock," she purred playfully from the couch, rising to approach John, "You didn't tell me you were getting a puppy!" She reached up to pet affectionately behind John's ears, and leaned in to tease at that sensitive spot on his neck with her teeth. He melted a little where he stood, and Sherlock's firm grasp on his elbow and the lead were all that kept him standing. Coy fingers trailed down John's front, unbuttoning his top before teasing at the front of his trousers. "And your puppy's getting a bone," she giggled up at Sherlock. He huffed in amusement and handed her the lead. She grinned and gave it a sharp yank. "Sit!"

John choked and stumbled toward the couch, but she yanked again, pointing at the floor. John began to protest, but Sherlock reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a muzzle, thick and black-leathered and obviously fitted to a human face. John sighed and resigned to play along. It was clear that Sherlock was serious about leading him down new and unexplored venues to their fullest, and the new puppy supposed he was lucky to go along for the ride.


	172. Stunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the precursor to "Function."

Sherlock was in rare form tonight, leaping from car to fire escape to roof, trailing along a thick stream of breath in the cold air behind him. John clung to it as he desperately tried to keep up with the would-be parkour artist who was gaining ground ahead of him. Their culprit tonight didn't stand a chance if the adrenaline-driven detective kept this up. "Sherlock!" John panted as he sprinted across a rooftop, taking advantage of the flat surface to try to keep up, "Leg or no leg, I was NEVER this good! Wait up!"

Sherlock turned just a fraction as he leapt down to the balcony below. "Just do your best," he called back, "I've got this un-" his reassurance was cut off as the hurdle grip he had on the railing slipped on an invisible patch of ice, and his stunt went terribly wrong. John could only watch in horror as his momentum carried him what must have been ten, fifteen metres, to land roughly on the roof of a car below. His practice allowed him to roll into the fall, displacing some of the kinetic energy, but it was obvious he'd still taken quite an impact.

John struggled not to cry out for help as he made his way down the fire escape on the far end of the balcony, knowing it would be even worse news to alert the vicious criminal they'd been trailing that Sherlock was vulnerable. The doctor pulled out his phone and dialed an ambulance as he ran back toward Sherlock's writhing form, the heartbeat pounding in his ears making it hard to hear the operator on the other end of the line. At least it hadn't been a fall like... THAT fall. Sherlock was clearly still alive, and the strained breathing through gritted teeth clued John in that the fallen detective was struggling not to howl in pain. John steeled his nerves and prepared for the worst.


	173. Transform

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's right, folks, it's time for another chapter based on "Chameleon," by Velvet Mace. If you haven't read that, what the hell are you doing reading my shit? And yay for transformer owls!

Sherlock was surprised when next he glimpsed his spirit guide. As always, the owl eluded his sight until it wanted to be seen. However, when it emerged from the forest of his subconscious, (he'd been stuck on a new case and John had only just barely been able to pull him out of the spiral of frustration he'd gotten stuck into- the Guide suggested meditation ever so helpfully) the Sentinel noticed that it wasn't the same as the last time he'd seen it, during his hunt for the Phantom. The screech owl had been camouflaged then, a clue as to the nature of his quarry. Its feathers were different now, and Sherlock wondered if the bonding process would usually transform the spirit guides of those involved.

Now, the owl was not quite so bark-mottled. Its ear tufts were slightly elongated, and hairy feathers concealed its beak. It was a more uniform grey, save for the thick black parentheses framing its face. Sherlock knew better this time than to ask it direct questions, knowing that his guide was elusive and nondirect. Instead, he presented it the case at hand. They had been dealing with a drug ring; a synthesized version of guenidine with effects far more potent and dangerous to the young, desperate, unbonded Sentinels who went to great lengths to purchase it.

Sherlock pictured the contact into the ring they had, a wiry man with a scowl and a need for dominance. He wasn't giving in to any of Sherlock's requests for information, not even the ones accompanied by monetary compensation. He presented his memories of this dealer to the owl, who responded by hunching over, its wings arched and cheek-feathers flared around wide eyes. It was a bluff, and the small grey owl appeared twice its own size. Sherlock wondered if brute force might be a better option with the dealer, who might respond to a perceived threat better than the promise of reward.

Next, Sherlock pictured the boss of the ring. He knew very little about the man, only that anyone involved regarded him with a great deal of fear and trepidation, and knew nearly as little as Sherlock did. This was what had been most frustrating of all, that such a powerful figure could remain so hidden in shadows. Sherlock HAD to find a way in to him. The owl picked up on this powerful force emanating from Sherlock's imagination, and drew itself straight up into a thin pose, its darker grey wing hiding its light underbelly. The dark cheek parentheses were pulled back to the sides, and its eyes squinted at him menacingly. Sherlock knew he could not bluff his way into the good graces of this overlord, whose web of influence undoubtedly controlled far more than this shadowy network of dealers. In order to infiltrate the operation, he knew he would have to go undercover, fight power with power-hunger, evil with evil. John was not going to like it.

Sherlock silently thanked the owl for its council, and tugged back along his bond to John, who pulled him out of his zone. "What did you see?"

Sherlock grinned, "We've got our work cut out for us."


	174. Dilemma

John crossed his arms and tried not to scowl, putting on as pleasant a face as he could manage. The thick aura of posh smugness exuding from across the desk was suffocating, and each tick of the wall clock only accentuated how much John would prefer to be in the company of the other brother Holmes.

"John, I'm sure you can understand the serious implications inherent in the decision to become an actively participating member of Sherlock's... business." Mycroft shuffled through his papers and removed his reading glasses, peering back across his desk at his captive audience, lip curled in the smallest dredge of a sneer. "The frivolous paperwork alone would prove quite a dilemma."

John snorted. "Please. Don't pretend you're trying to protect me. I get more than my fair share of problems. Living with Sherlock, it's a way of life. Even when we haven't got anything to work on, just LIVING is a dilemma." He smiled wistfully, recalling the escaped gerbil which had made its way into the clean sanctuary of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. Much like the mousetraps employed by the landlady, John's mind snapped back to the issue at hand. "I'm used to the danger. The action, the risk, the thrill, it's become normal to me. At this point I can't imagine living without it. I don't see what's so difficult about coming on as Sherlock's official study." Now that I haven't got a real job getting in the way, he added silently.

Mycroft scrutinized him for a moment longer, and John could only begin to guess at the minute details he might be observing in order to draw his conclusion. Not like John needed Big Brother's approval anyway, nothing could stop him and Sherlock from continuing on together in their ways.

Well, nothing besides a paved sidewalk approaching Sherlock at several kilometers per hour. But that shouldn't happen again.

"Very well," Mycroft sighed as he texted Anthea, "I'll see what I can do to assist on my end. My blessings on the happy couple." He re-donned his reading glasses and turned back to the files and computer screen, a silent dismissal. John smirked and got up to leave, eager to start work on his first solo case.


	175. Architecture- Winglock

Sherlock was in a bit of a grump after the long drive from London to Oxfordshire, unaccustomed to having to spend that much time in a car for the sake of his new, unwinged partner. His pectorals ached with the effort of drawing his wings in close enough to fit into the small frame. The antsy detective leapt out of the car immediately upon their arrival, giving a good stretch and a few flaps before turning to John with a good-natured expression, as though he’d never snapped viciously at John and the taxi driver out of frustration.

After a quick lunch, the two were soon off, scouting out the town for the professor indicated by their client. Sherlock took to a spire on one of the tallest buildings, while John infiltrated the pedestrian crowd. The two kept a close ear on each other by bluetooth, and John tried not to stare up at Sherlock as a bank of grey, angry clouds rolled in. The light tinted his black wings to a stony grey, and from afar he seemed to be no more than one of the various gargoyles affixed to the architecture.

“Sherlock,” John murmured into his earpiece, “I don’t like the look of those clouds. Maybe you should come down for a bit.”

A soft hum of concentration was all the response he got.

Minutes later, when the rain started and all the pedestrians put up their umbrellas, Sherlock snapped to his senses and realized the futility of his remaining. However, by that time it was too late. The water soaked through his feathers and coat, water-logging him past the point of safe aviation. He sighed and raised one wing to shelter his face and the headset, the water rolling off the slick feathers in a spout from each tip. “John,” he sighed, “I’m going to be awhile.” It was lucky the clouds were free of thunder, or he would have been in real trouble.

A soft, gently amused voice in his ear calmed him slightly as he clung to the cornerstone on the spire. “Let me see if I can get to a staircase that goes up there.”


	176. Reporter

John squinted as the camera's spotlight swung past his eyes to focus on Lestrade, who had somehow had the foresight to keep his sunglasses on, even as the sun sank behind the skyline. Sally shot a look back at Sherlock, who was preoccupied with the body and was paying the intrusive reporters no mind. She crossed her arms and glowered back at the camera, glancing at John with a frustrated eye-roll.

"Detective, you're now working with Sherlock Holmes again, after his return from faking his own death. Is this now an official consulting partnership?"

Lestrade frowned and tried to answer, "Now there's- hang on, Sherlock is very skilled at what he does, we're lucky to have his help."

"And what about the allegations made against him last year, which you went to court to dispel?" John couldn't quite make out the face of the reporter as she jabbed a microphone closer to Lestrade. Sally grabbed it away from him and took the attention off her flustered superior.

"Yeah? And he was proved innocent, wann't he?" Sally nearly spat the words, clearly still sore over her role in the investigation. "Look, if there were any doubt remaining, we wouldn't have nothin' to do with him, would we?"

John found the microphone turned on himself. "Doctor Watson, you're Sherlock's ...friend? Partner? Associate? How did the cruel faking of his death affect you and your relationship?"

John growled, "You DO realize he's RIGHT OVER THERE." He turned back to look at Sherlock, who would be able to hear every smear directed at him, and didn't seem to be giving a damn. He was now moving on to the wreck of a car that the victim was halfway propped out of. John sighed and turned back to the camera. "Look, just... could you just, I dunno, go away? This is still all very new to all of us, and we're each coping in our own way. We'll need some time before we're ready to answer questions."

Lestrade, thankfully, was able to corral the reporter and her crew behind the police line, leaving them to get back to the case in peace. John didn't look forward to going through that again.


	177. Hassle

John sat up straight in his armchair as Sherlock stomped up the stairs with a couple bags of groceries. The doctor had to remember to close his mouth as he watched the introvert bring the goods into the kitchen and store them properly in the refrigerator, even going so far as to dispose of the oldest experiments in the back, which had started to mould over the previous week.

John stammered for a second, then gave up on wording and followed Sherlock into the kitchen. Curling his arms around the detective’s diminutive waist as the last item, a pint of milk, was shoved into the door, John let his chin rest on Sherlock’s shoulder as he gave a firm squeeze of affection. “What brought this on?” He nosed gently behind Sherlock’s ear, eliciting a soft rumble against his chest.

“Why, I’m certain I’ve no idea what you mean,” Sherlock teased, “I was just being a responsible flat-mate, like usual.” He curled his fingers in with John’s, who leaned in against him gently until he was pinned against the fridge, cold permeating his front with a firm, heavy warmth pressed in against his back.

John nipped gently at Sherlock’s lobe, straining slightly on his toes to reach. “No,” he grinned into the dark curls, “You would only go through the hassle of doing mundane chores like that if you wanted something. From me.” He slipped a hand up Sherlock’s chest, weaving two fingers into the space between the buttons on his old purple shirt. With the slightest of tugs on the shirt, he released his hold around his partner’s waist and coaxed him around to face forward.

Sherlock sighed happily and took his turn to wrap John in his grasp, nose buried in his hair with a deep inhale. “Maybe I just missed the attention,” he murmured after a short contemplation. As often as they may have had their differences and the occasional scuffle, at least it was always easy to get back on John’s good side.


	178. Convict

With each passing moment as John passed through the hallways, the wary old veteran wished more and more that he'd been able to bring his gun. Its reassuring pressure against his back would have been a welcome addition as the shouts and jeers clamored in at him from all sides. The guard kept to a tight path down the center of the halls, away from any potential grasp of the prisoners behind the bars.

After what seemed like a marathon of a trek through the facility, John found himself at the enclosure of the most dangerous convict in the entire prison; one Sebastian Moran. The ex-colonel didn't even acknowledge his existence as John approached. The shaggy locks John had grown accustomed to during their year of friendship had once again been sheared back, as once they had been in military days. His eyes seemed sunken in and lifeless, with no purpose left to kindle his usually passionate obsession with an assigned task. Moriarty was gone, his career was gone, his target was taken from him, and the man responsible for all of it was cajoling about carefree in the streets of London.

"Seb," John tried carefully, earning no recognition, "I need your help." The long, bony fingers clasped themselves into fists, and Sebastian turned his back to John. The doctor continued on, hoping his plea wasn't falling on deaf ears. "We've gotten ourselves in over our heads again, but this time I think our suspect is someone you know. Do you remember a man called The Razorback?"

Sebastian didn't move, but his voice echoed against the walls of his cell. "The Razorback is no man. She's a monster. Celia Fernando was her name until she took on her gruesome profession. If you value your life, John, you'll stay far away from The Razorback." John could just make out a shudder along the frame of the aging sniper, and couldn't suppress one of his own. Who could possibly strike fear into the heart of Moran?


	179. Necessity

Sherlock slouched another fraction of a centimeter, hunched over his laptop with a bloodshot gaze. The poor machine was running at full capacity, its fan working overtime to try to prevent a premature death by overheating. The screen glowed steadily into the rest of the sitting room for its third night straight. Sherlock reached a hand out to his side, reiterating his silent request with a snap of the fingers after a moment passed with his hand still empty.

John sighed and placed the horrific energy drink into his hand. “Is this really necessary?” He eyed the growing pile of empty cans with a growing sense of alarm. “This can’t possibly be healthy, Sherlock.”

Without averting his gaze from the level 82 shaman, Sherlock raised the eyebrow on the side John could see. “You know I only ever do ridiculous things out of necessity. Like getting into fist fights with you, or eating, or riding in a hot air balloon. If it weren’t the only way of getting to this hacker, I wouldn’t be doing it. He only trusts members of his own guild enough to talk to.” As an afterthought, he added, “If it even IS a he. I’ve been fooled once already yesterday.”

John shook his head, trying not to grumble about the classification of “eating” as a ridiculous thing. He would just be glad when Sherlock got whatever it was he needed from this computer hacker. He didn’t see why they couldn’t just go back to Bertold, who wouldn’t require hundreds of hours dedicated to a mumorpig, whatever that was


	180. Cap

A creak of the stairs alerted Sherlock to a visitor. The hard soles against the wood sounded out the oxford shoes. The slower pace revealed a tall but not-fit man. Sherlock met Mycroft at the door before he could knock and wake the doctor sleeping on the couch. The elder Holmes glanced at John's curled form with a curt smile, and let himself be ushered into the kitchen, where he spoke in hushed tones to his brother.

"I'm sure you've heard about Mummy."

Sherlock snorted and nearly raged before he remembered to reign it in. "You know I don't keep tabs on family. Unlike some of us."

"She's dead, Sherlock." Mycroft's fingers tightened imperceptibly around the handle of his umbrella.

The detective was silent then. He scowled at the burns and scrapes in the kitchen table. He fidgeted and glanced around, anywhere but at Mycroft, until the overbearing silence forced him to look up. "Well what do you want me to do about it?"

The elder Holmes sighed softly. "Come to her funeral this Friday. You don't have to stay long, but it would mean the world to ...well, to me, I suppose. I must remind you how one of your cases prevented you from attending Father's."

"And if another one comes up, don't think I'll turn it down." By this point, Sherlock would have insisted on Mycroft's departure, but today he allowed him to remain for a while longer.

Mycroft thankfully mentioned nothing about sentimentality or how they were all each other had left. He knew it wasn't true, after all. Not anymore. The good doctor let a soft snore escape him from the couch, as if to prove a point. "There's just... one more issue." Mycroft donned his reading glasses and reached into his breast pocket, withdrawing a tri-folded document. "I'd already been in control of most of the assets for quite some time now, but now that the rest have been transferred officially to my discretion, I think it's far past time to remove the cap on your spending limits." He unfolded the paper and pushed it across the battered old kitchen table, a pen already resting on it. "Sign this; it'll reinstate you as an equal owner of the Holmes estates and accounts."

Sherlock read through the document as Mycroft urged him on a little more. "I'd like to see you upgrade in your living quarters; get a place of your own, maybe the mansion down the road from mine. Imagine how far you could travel for your pursuit of science and mystery!"

Mycroft soon found the document being pushed back in his direction, unsigned. "Keep your bribe," Sherlock snapped, "I've been self-supporting for the past fifteen years, and I don't want a place of my own." Now he took the time to gather Mycroft's coat and usher him back toward the door. "I'll come to the funeral, and you'll not mention this to another soul, not even Anthea. Understood?"

Mycroft only made his way back down the stairs to continue making arrangements for the ceremony and burial. One never could get their way entirely when it came to Sherlock, but this visit had been more successful than he had dared hope.


	181. Treaty

The light at the end of the hallway flickered softly as Violet crept her way down to check on her boys. A creak at the door alerted them both, and the mess of dark curls and the neat fawn hairline raised to greet her, smiling faces beneath each. Mycroft was lying in bed on his stomach, a great textbook propped in his arms as his two-year-old brother straddled his back and bounced on his shoulders.

“Why Mycroft, I’m surprised at you,” Violet smirked, “I thought you’d asked me to keep your brother from bothering you while you work?”

Mycroft glanced back at Sherlock, who met his grin with a smile made of teeth he was still getting used to having. They turned back to their mummy as Sherlock burst into giggles. “Sherlock and I have formed a treaty,” Mycroft explained with a more reserved smirk, “I read aloud my homework to him, and he does his best not to be annoying. Or bite.”

“We’re learning! About worms!” the toddler supplied helpfully.

Violet chuckled behind her fingers and entered the room a few steps to plant kisses on the crowns of both boys. “Enjoy,” she told them both, “I’ll be back in to put Sherlock to bed in an hour.” The disappointed whine as she returned to the sitting room was quickly shushed and replaced with a dissertation on Annelids.


	182. Side

Sherlock laid back as the darkness and the high-thread-count sheets enveloped him, rolling onto his side to fix a gaze on the crescent moon as he contemplated the night’s events. The adrenaline and endorphins from an exciting case well solved had long since subsided, leaving his general mood at a low buzz. The night had been… interesting. What had started as merely an accidental accompaniment, bringing the new flatmate along to prove a point to Lestrade, had turned out to be a valuable partnership. Even without being asked, the quickly-loyal doctor had gone to great measures to ensure Sherlock’s safety.

Burying his face into the cool down pillow, Sherlock drew a breath and tried not to think about what might have happened if the sharpshooting veteran hadn’t rushed to his side. Failing that, he tried to keep from wondering what difference it would have made in the world if he’d actually gone through with swallowing that infernal capsule.


	183. Sustain

Sherlock leaned back against the cool bricks of the underpass, letting his head rest on the dank surface as he exhaled a thick cloud of tobacco smoke and breath-fog. The fog swirled around him and wrapped gently around his mind, providing a quieting buzz laid over the over-stimulation of his beloved London. The couple passing by, with a concealed quarrel about diets? Not important. The car going overhead with one wheel flatter than the others? Not relevant. Had to focus on the case. Sherlock closed his eyes and ran over the details of the crime scene again. Could Lestrade possibly be on to something with the fingerprints on the window pane?

His thought process was crudely interrupted as his wrist was grabbed roughly and the cigarette plucked from his fingers. "Oy, this park is public property of the commonwealth, smoking ain't allowed. Go home, yeah?" The middle-aged copper with a family of five tossed Sherlock's butt to the gravel path and snuffed it out with his shoe, a pitiful hiss escaping the heat of the tip against the damp little rocks. Sherlock sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, impatiently fingering the nearly-full box of fags awaiting him as he turned and headed in the opposite direction of his interruption. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in the city these days.


End file.
